Bloodied My Favorite Turquoise Blue Kicks
We were in the thick and the barley, the ghost stalks of corn,
and the near-frozen clover. Nearly overcome by the just-
sprouted hops two fields over. Loads of hairy cows watched
us, mad-curious, from the sparse hills and rocks. The old bull
paced and rubbed against the rusted-out dump. The cold,
broken forge and that singular oak. The road was cut like a
gash. You called me a sight of wild hair against all that
backdrop; showed me how to twist the paper and set it
between the logs. You are a source of light and heat when
everything else is not. You read to me as a way to talk.
Fucked me as a way to song. A top five day, I would tell the
Angel; I would riddle the bridge-troll; I would rattle the
chains and locks. And you were so careful where you had
always been rough—as not to hurt me where I had cut.
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Rogan Kelly
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POETRY
Rogan Kelly is the author of the chapbook Demolition in the Tropics (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019). His work has appeared in New Orleans Review, The Penn Review, Plume, RHINO, and elsewhere. He is the editor of The Night Heron Barks and Ran Off With the Star Bassoon.
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