A collection by Kemry Farthing, December 2019
Kemry Farthing is mother to an eleven-month-old, who was, in fact, not named after the singer Donovan. She lives in Virginia between two massive willow oaks. She writes poetry and middle grade adventure fiction, and enjoys hand piecing quilts to relieve stress.
December 18, 2019
On the other side of winter
it’s tomorrow
and we’re talking as if the roots didn’t freeze
as if there hadn’t been months of piled up, torn quilts
or weeks of half breathing days
On the far side of winter
the flower bed is warm and empty
and the table is full and that Cohen song
is rolling out of the radio
and we’re waking up without remembering when we
wrapped up in each other during the night
December 11, 2019
I want you to kiss me with the light on again
not in the dark
in the middle of sleep
and definitely not under the stars
I want to be kissed in the middle of our kitchen,
florescent light buzzing because it’s about to go out,
red rings on a hot stove top
Not in our hallway, two o’clock, passing each other
between dreams and the bathroom
Not a goodnight kiss after you switch off the lamp,
fan keeping the warm air down.
Not a good morning kiss when the baby wakes us up
with cries before we’ve opened the blinds
I want to be kissed in the cereal aisle when we can’t decide
and getting in the car before our noses warm,
when you look up from the book in your hands
and can’t help but walk over to me
After dinner prayer,
like you opened your eyes and got exactly what you asked for.
Cheesy Love Poem #322
If I were a songwriter, it would be so
much harder to tell you I love you
and so I’m glad I’m not a songwriter
With verses to repeat and cords to memorize
I don’t want to play you
it doesn’t feel at all like a game to me
or a tune to beat out
It just is and
I just do
love you
So, I’m glad I’m not a songwriter
and the ends of these lines don’t
have to match perfectly
Our bed sheets are already ripped
and I’m just as tall as you
and there’s a mouse living
somewhere behind our cabinets
These aren’t metaphors
They just are
and I just do
love you
still
Riza Press 