THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM
I spend money on flowers
when Iím sad. Indoors, the wind
gusts sound like brown corduroy
pant legs slowly rubbing. This
reminds me of you when you said,
The wind makes me feel crazy.
Youíve disappeared, and others
are in progress. I continued with
the antonym search for wind
until my hair became too long. Did
a shaman insist on a soft cut? I decide
to oblige. The white tulips on the table
are still growing toward the oblivious
light. I decide to oblige.
PREFACE TO A HANGNAIL
Temporary, in a crease, you
donít define me. The table
isnít a table, but rather a daybed
in a dark room. The blood
on the sheets has dried
and the pillowcases attempt
to hold paperclips because
theyíre desperate to keep
my pedestrian autobiography
private. They spill to the floor.
This isnít a violent place,
but rather vital like a border
between bodies. I need to trade
a glass of water for some salt.
Kevin McLellan is the author of Hemispheres (Fact-Simile Press, forthcoming), [box] (Letter [r] Press, 2016), Tributary (Barrow Street, 2015), and Round Trip (Seven Kitchens, 2010). He won the 2015 Third Coast Poetry Prize and Gival Pressí 2016 Oscar Wilde Award, and his poems have appeared in several journals including: American Letters & Commentary, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, inter|rupture, Kenyon Review, Sonora Review, West Branch, Western Humanities Review, Witness. Kevin lives in Cambridge MA.