Author: Kay Kennett

I hold a Bachelor’s degree in English and Women’s & Gender Studies from Wheaton College (MA). There, I published several poems in the campus literary magazine, Rushlight, performed in poetry readings and slams, and won the Helen Meyers Tate Memorial Prize for Original Verse. Additionally, I published in the online magazines Curbside Splendor and Atticus Review. In my early adult life, I have not pursued creative writing professionally, but rather landed in the field of Marketing & Communications, writing outreach and educational content for nonprofit organizations and schools. I am very involved in civic and community activities, particularly within Education and the Arts. I currently teach enrichment classes to K-5 students, tutor high school students in English/Language Arts, and manage social media and email marketing for a handful of nonprofit and small business clients. Find my full worker identity at LinkedIn. Some other identities that are important to me: only child, child of a single father, working class, tenth-generation (New England) American, first-generation college graduate, living with mental illness, bisexual. Thank you for reading.

4

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

What makes a favorite number is enigmatic.

The answer to how many blades of grass
whistled between my thumbs
on that hazy summer afternoon,
bored to death, but still sweating
only childhood — how many didn’t?

The rhythm of counting clovers by color
white, white, red, blistering red
not minding the stinger,
on the instep of my index finger,
which proved the sweetest score.

The shape of that room in my memory
with unpainted concrete sidings —
aged into a mosaic of brown specks
of old blood — that seemed to fall in
no matter how I squared them.

My favorite number is four. There is no reason for it.
It is just how it is, so far as I know.



Juliet Balcony

.Reading time 1 minute.

The best human solution to the problem of grief

over a lost sense of being outdoors,
combined with fear of being found out
is the Juliet balcony, a slight protrusion towards
Step 1: Admit powerlessness.

Forecasters say heavy rains, pushing east-southeast,
could knock it out on Monday morning,
and what’s worse, lift my seedlings from their pots,
and plant them into the alley.

I want to get back into circulation, free-flowing
words that pop out of nowhere,
like the bright pink head of that purple finch there,
with forward-facing toes gripped around
a wild knot of power.

I admit I lack the same command of iambic feet,
but my deeply sincere tone, and good humor alone
could help others get through the day;
namely, the zinnias, otherwise to be washed
beyond the reach of roots by May.

So, I switch the latch lock off, and rise to join them
at the balustrade, where I recite a mantra:
…to accept the things I cannot change…
and there’s something slightly
Shakespearean about it now.

What Remains Vivid Now

.Reading time 2 minutes.

the memory of the pansy, bold faced, persisting
through whiplash weather.
March 14: snow.
March 15: storm of pollen

over the mountains,
across the flats,
down into the valleys —

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Psalm 119:71

.Reading time 1 minute.

Truth from your mouth means more to me than striking it rich in a gold mine. With your very own hands you formed me

from an image of melt-in-your-mouth perfection.

See me — in my woolen strings, stretched
across the fuel bed, contemplating
what you meant by “Soon.”

Between the low heat of combustion,
and the failure of your flame
to spread away from the wick,
I feel set up,

enough to do a whip-around,
to ask Can you clarify that?
Can you sift the cloudy water for
clear, cold fat?

I see you — in serene objectivity,
bowed over the river stone ring,
pondering the gravity of
your mere existence;

while I hang on your every word,
like a small lamb splayed
on a spit, watching them spread

from throat towards tongue,
until you lick on just one
that lands on my drum,
like brown butter.

Inexplicably nutty and fragrant,
complex in a way
that plain butter just isn’t.
When will you see me?

“Soon.”

Ground Cherry

.Reading time 1 minute.

Outside, a July sky | above the weedy meadow | amid stalks of golden rye | I bow to you. “Hello, | from what cold, clear bottle did you pop

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