by Kit Kennedy
Streets familiar as the veins in my material grandmother’s hands. Buildings meander into a well-worn chasm where the study of beauty is read backwards. Be forewarned, bees have fled. No honey for breakfast.
WHAT STONES SAY to EACH OTHER in a DROUGHT
What did we eat during this time?
Any ripe thing we could find.
Peaches, pears, mangoes, tomatoes
avocados. When we saw each other,
which was frequent, we exchanged
3 limes. Why? No one remembers
& what we did with those limes
was part secret, part journey
with as few words as possible
threadbare at elbows
Every object meaning holds;
Every dream, place sits named
Kit Kennedy is Poet in Residence of San Francisco Bay Times. She’s published 5 poetry collections including while eating oysters (CLWN WR BKS, Brooklyn). Her work has also appeared in Otoliths, Great Weather for MEDIA anthologies, The Pedestal Magazine, and Van Gogh's Ear. She has never outgrown her love of red shoes.