AuthorMickie Kennedy

Mickie Kennedy is an American poet who resides in Baltimore County, Maryland with his family and two feuding cats. He enjoys British science fiction and the idea of long hikes in nature. His work has appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Artword Magazine, Conduit, Portland Review, Rockhurst Review, and Wisconsin Review. He earned an MFA from George Mason University.

Cobalt Tears

C

Blue tulips in April are mine.I have claimed them all as my own.I allow them to cleave the groundyou watch them grow from,every act of agriculturea wayward rebellionbeneath a forgiving sun. I am at this moment the devil’s giftat communion, the air you takeas you swallow bread and wine. Divine is the art you attemptwith blades and vases, an army of colors,when the only one that concerns me...

Bad Dad

B

I wipe tiredness from my eyes.It’s morning, another day survived. And so begins the drip of last-night scoopsof coffee into a mug, World’s Greatest Dad. I fail to measure up to that cup’s depth,a half-assed bundle of Irish rage and remembrance of children dancing gingerlyas I brood in my La-Z-Boy. I exchange mementos of saved ticket stubsand photos taken at the zoo in front of the...

American Obsessive

A

At the Christmas tree farm up the street, workers shove pine branches into a burnbarrel for both heat and the smoky scent that entices commuters in minivans topull over and ask the price and how much extra for delivery. I set up my six-footartificial pop-up tree in less than five minutes, ornaments and lights included.This brings me joy. My best friend owns very little. He has no paper, all his...

Growing Wings

G

Pink wet robin, a baby perchedon the end of a shoe,plucked right back into the nest,to be rejected if the oils on my hand aren’t too human. The alchemy of milk into caramel,a shifting of weight on linoleum. When the power finally cuts offthere’s a triangle of steak, a folded slice of bread, and beer. Wings sit in the back of geometry class.Mother of pearl at this angle, bending at the knee,she...

The Queen’s Bonfire

T

Damn the will. The day’s blotterhas given up the dead:a girl’s name and alleged act of treason.A wooden chair for her to sit,should her location be revealed.The plume, a plane, a vintner’s glass,the sprocket in a mechanic’s bag of tricks.I’d rather the search befor something regal than the alternative,a girl in a faded blue dress and a stitchof remorse along the hem. Her...

Falling Outside the Body

F

Each blade of grass pressed by the bottom of my feet, I walk in open opposition to those seated at the wedding where I should have been your groom. I had learned to speak American through a series of tapes that arrived in the mail, being out of place more a mood than the actual spot where I buried my face into a pillow. You look at me the way women look at the rib cages of Victorian corset...

Small Talk

S

We are projections on a sheet in the yard,suspicious spools of film liberated from metal cans.When there is nothing left to play, the children retreatto flashlight tag, and the women refresh their wine. The men huddle in the darkness.Someone is talking about the circus,and a boy on stilts who used to shout insults at the crowd.Your mama’s so short, she needs a ladder to pick up a dime. The...

Big Score on a Little Porch

B

A couple of women in hospital scrubssteal packages on porches. Whenthe homeowner checks the footagehe finds the culprit is unfindable,essentially anyone—essential or not.They parked far enough away so noteven sure of the car or whether theywalked a few houses down where theymight live. They are everyone andno one. The video is uploaded and sharedonline with neighbors. Very few seemto care. The...

Just Like Your Mother

J

Three years ago, before the separation,hate-spattered yellow, Sherwin Williams, the boundary of our bodies growing jagged,then dashed, to suggest disputed territory. I imagine you sleeping with the same intensityof a squinting cat. You are not asleep, yet things go more literally, smoothly,as when the fret at the foot of the floor grieves openly, the way morphine spiggles out the door and down...

Courtside Tickets

C

What stands between your words and my actions,is a barrel of government contractors, an asteriskalong the ankles, a four-letter word for treason.I am at this very point two sides stapled togetherand presented lengthwise; a catapult of shameand a horse in need of re-shoeing. There is a precipice of pupil and promise,a red velvet rope at the local theater, designedto simultaneously keep out and in...

Recent Poems