Nov/Dec 2018 • Vol. XL No. 6 PoetryNovember 1, 2018 |

Carol

Oaks or chestnuts, what here     draws brass linen, wakes me, overcast,     with the polished sprigs of my grandmother’s     lamp, holding the plumed shade once holding fire by her opened Bible, parsed     for the night’s reading. Across dark and     plywood, an aqueduct’s dry run, listen     my voice, around her house, croton leaves from the oven’s heat, levitating.     Saturdays doubles her to a bee. I outstare     the sea and summon the carols of Christmas;     her fake pine tree, its foil star perforates the town’s gossiping lights.     I again turn the pages, she sleeps     in the watered-down night. Where do they go? Where do they go?

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

The First Black Bachelorette

By Tiana Clark

Oaks or chestnuts, what here     draws brass linen, wakes me, overcast,     with the polished sprigs of my grandmother’s     lamp, holding the plumed shade once holding fire by her opened Bible, […]

Extraterrestre

By Emily Perez

Oaks or chestnuts, what here     draws brass linen, wakes me, overcast,     with the polished sprigs of my grandmother’s     lamp, holding the plumed shade once holding fire by her opened Bible, […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.