Pamlico Sound, North Carolina
It is morning and the pelicans are filling the sky; they glide past in silence
stare at the choppy river below.
The right cuff of my pants is soaked as we walk up the beach together.
I say “together” but she is far ahead of meslender and fleeta spring doe
skimming the sand.
The game we play is an ancient oneyou know the name, you made the rules.
A crab at the edge of the pier clacks his blue claws and scowlshungry
to escape the sweet warm wash of nostalgia.
And the gulls diving from the sky are maniacalcompelled by greed,
they fallgleaming white missiles of laughter and tears.
She is so far ahead of me now that I plan for tomorrow.
The pelicansugly with patience & wisdomglide gently past.
The hungover fishermen finish their coffee, pull on their rubber boots.
Around the bend, the ferry churns the dark water whitegives three
long bellows of its horn.
JUNK: A LOVE POEM
You feel a kinship to discarded things
dishwashers with a spring loose, treadless tires,
buckets of paint with slack, wrinkled skin.
The weeks after school lets out,
your truck is never lonely.
The sad, sagging sofa just needs the right . . .
“Isn’t Julie’s sunroom a buttery yellow?”
And so we tug and heft
the little couch into the back
the sheet of chipboard you grabbed on Jackson
will repair the damage of an exuberant lover,
the miscue in the big game.
These things will make her whole again,
a warm dog curled in the crook of her arm,
a shirtless poet reading Dig Safe.
It’s not the waste that moves you, or,
as you’re often accused, a misguided
desire to make the worthless useful again.
Once you told me about a tenant who
joined you for grapefruit one morning.
It was early spring and you sat on the stoop
talking about girls, The Cubs, tomatoes
and then he walked awaygone.
No job, no way to pay the rent,
so he left. Abandoned his paints, his easel.
Didn’t take his blind, arthritic cat.
Didn’t tell his teenage Mexican girlfriend.
But you let her stay. And she worked long
hot days in the garden, and later,
in the coolness of night, she canned tomatoes
and pickled peppers for your winter pantry.
Eventually the cat passed away.
Tears streaked both your faces
as you buried him beneath his favorite Holly.
And then, she too was gone.
But let’s back up a minute.
Yes, you did enjoy grapefruit on the steps. Yes,
it was spring. And being spring everything did
seem fresh and possibleThe Cubs
might yet have won the World Series.
But here’s where things get muddied.
He was more than a tenant
more like your son, truth be told.
And he didn’t walk away, disappear.
He went back home, drew
an intolerably hot bath heaped with billowy
mounds of lilac-scented bubbles.
He climbed in, sank down.
Only his face was showing,
but underneath the water,
hidden from everyone,
his life sprouted from his arms in rich
crimson blossoms as beautiful as a bouquet
of fresh-cut roses.
There was no Mexican girlfriend,
only that comforting and loyal sadness
that comes with abandonment.
And the desire
to stop it
Terry Kennedy is the Assistant Director of the Graduate Program in Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. His work appears in a variety of journals and magazines including Now & Then: The Appalachian Magazine, The Poetry Miscellany, The South Carolina Review, and Southern Humanities Review.