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3 poems
K I M B E R L Y C A S E Y
HER FIRST DEPLOYMENT
after Jane Hirschfield
All winter long my father prayed for my mother.
I do not know what drives a man back to church
after three decades, do not know if the customs,
the ash fingertips on the forehead, create comfort
for someone missing their partner's touch—
Not knowing if he missed her or
the clean house, the full fridge.
As the frogs sing under the stars, I know
that god can be the biggest wound we carry.
He folds one fist into the mitt of his palm,
a worn cloth polishing a stone smooth.
SIGNING THE PAPERS
Spouse I Last Name Prior To First Marriage
I have always been my mother’s daughter
despite the distance, she calls
to tell me about the new hiking trails
she has carved from the earth,
ready for my running shoes.
Number Of This Marriage
If you kiss a falling tree
alone in the woods
and no one hears you whisper
I love you
does it really make a sound?
Number Of Children In This Household
Over 1,500 species have been recorded
to eat their young, on occasion.
Does that first bite
feel like a cyst rupturing?
My teeth are sharp
but my womb is hollow.
Date Of Separation. Date Of Final Decree
I can remember calling Maya
while driving to work
crying because the last thread severed.
Now we are wearing masks.
Thanksgiving is coming.
I am not good at admitting
failure.
Legal Grounds For Decree
I cannot tell you who you are
but I know where you’ve been.
You’re standing in a mirror.
You’re both here, and back there.
Cheers to the cycle,
turned upside-down and back
around again. Do your hands
miss my body? Or do the cans
keep them company?
Decree Awarded To
The hot cup of coffee
held cradled between both hands
on the timid, screened-in porch.
The steam rising
To meet a vast new sunrise.
PARTICULATES
A germ suspended in the air between us
gave off the glow of leaving
before we knew we needed an exit.
The fever between us grew,
But not in that once newlywed-heat way
all sweat and gasp and blush, no,
now our marriage has bubbled to blister.
What does a love language mean
when we have already stopped speaking?
Does our zodiac sign tell us
how to apologize, how to dismantle
the bricks we’ve built up between our bodies?
The rain is getting inside again.
We cover everything in plastic,
the furniture, my books, his guitar,
but we forget to shelter ourselves.
I wish I knew how to be his
umbrella, his coat,
a thick cowl scarf around his neck,
enough warmth to survive winter.
Kimberly Casey was born and raised in Massachusetts, though she now calls Huntsville, Alabama home. She is the Founder and President of Out Loud Huntsville, a nonprofit organization dedicated to inspiring community outreach and activism through written and spoken word. She received her MFA from Pacific University in 2021. Her first book of poetry, Where The Water Begins, is available through Riot In Your Throat Press.
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