An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Elegy for the Man Who Collected Keys
He's out on a limb with tree bark under
his fingernails—again and against that
once real world—secrets strung from star
to star. It was the threat of sunset and
Professor Plum with a 22-caliber book
in the library. A branch's shadow swings
across the house; the statue he broke has
half a face. On the back porch, bugs kiss
the blue light and crack like knee caps.
Dust burns into breath. Shoehorned in
where he doesn't fit, he has nothing to say.
How Many Times
How many times did the woman impersonate herself—
the hummingbird's single note, her own wing spliced
through a needle's eye? Another glass of wine, another
repetition. Early this morning, she buried a squirrel that
died in her yard—dug the hole deeper than it needed to be
and held the small body close (still warm) until she
lowered it in (earth into body, body into earth)—another
hinge for the gate to swing on. The sky skylessly blue—
she was everywhere she didn't want to be. Even in
the dark, she couldn't fall asleep until, finally, with just
enough rage, just enough grace—she fit herself into a
smaller life (free of history and drama, free of every
saint and insipid Hamlet)—free of flesh, free of dust.
Adele Kenny lives in New Jersey. She is founding director of the Carriage House Poetry Series and poetry editor of Tiferet. Her poems appear in Verse Daily, Paterson Literary Review, Ragazine, and The Night Heron Barks.