Perennial

by

Kelsey Kistler

for T.R.

since the new year “you” and “I” have been less confused.
“you” is you and “i” is me. this may only be an apology:
my words are too feeble, making you a metaphor of cream
and sugar instead of this girl with cold car keys
trying to disappear into her shoulders.

you and winter compliment one another even if you
don't always get along. the tip of your nose is pink,
the season blushes back with an embarrassed half-halo sunset.
i say something self-detrimental and pretend it's a joke
so i have an excuse to laugh with you.
you of the Greek – therizo, “to harvest,” garnering
the harmony and discord of life's noise
and me a step behind laughing at nothing.

i am not afraid of silence but i am afraid of suppression,
of dead air birthing reticence (i am thus afraid
of myself). the chill crackles in your hair.
you walk like you mean it and breathe like it's no big deal.
i say “the trees are made of glass” and i mean
“without you i might break.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kelsey Kistler is a writer and photographer young enough to have “aspiring” consistently tacked in front of these titles. She is relatively inexperienced, but has a feeling that she will be saying that about herself fifty years from now. She is considering a transfer to the College of Creative Studies in Detroit, MI.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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