High Tide My family has perfected the art of keeping secrets Skilled at telling lies through rotted teeth Whiskey and loose tobacco spilled on splintered coffee tables Shuddering at the sound of the tick tick tick tick Every time a contestant takes a spin on the Wheel of Fortune Asking the youngest in the room Without a please or thank you To find a lighter Continue reading
Author Archives: Jacqueline Kirkpatrick
Two Poems – Jacqueline Kirkpatrick
Sunrise For Jack Kerouac
A poem for a poem I gave Jake the last inhale Watching a willow tree in a cow pasture turn to gold in the Acidic sunrise of a July we tried for years to forget. The long streams of branch swaying in a breeze that bumped my gooses From collar bone to sternum Raised buttons of oooooh, of ahhhhh, Of push them, push them - - we will never get out of here if we don't move faster Before I fall apart Jake falls asleep against the wind Shielded dreaming of a riddle on a Popsicle stick His tiny fingers clutching it Jamming it into his mother’s wringing hands Asking her to just tell him what it means that he can longer read French (as I flip the tent stake Mallet around and around, leav ing bruises in the ground, wondering if it is God or my child I should apologize to-) Continue reading
I Didn’t Got to AWP But…
Sadly, as a single mom, I couldn’t make it to AWP this year. But I’ve been keeping busy! So I didn’t go to AWP but I did:
- Google search “best places to drink in Minneapolis”
- Text people at AWP asking for more updates
- Sent a photo of myself to those at AWP with a text of “I miss you”
- Submit some nonfiction to a journal that was at AWP
- Checked my horoscope for the weekend
- Doodled six hearts and one stick boy
- Went on Twitter and searched for #awp
- Went on Twitter and searched for #awp15
Four Poems – Jacqueline Kirkpatrick
Autobiography
(for Frank O’Hara)
When I was his wife
I mopped the kitchen floor while
listening to Mozart on vinyl
drinking gin and tonics, alone.
Nothing gave me joy but Symphony No. 21 in A Major. Not even
Symphony No. 14 or Symphony No. 29. They just swirled
around my head never stopping,
never pausing to see if I was all right.
When he came home
begging for supper
I kept the bedroom door locked with a note taped to the peeling white paint,
“I have a migraine. Cold cuts in the fridge.”
Here I am
in a graveyard full of stones with one belonging to him.
I am laughing myself
Awake.
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