1906

It was all too much,
each day the heavy weight
of continuing on waited
to crush her,
knowing her arms were too weak to
lift the load above
her head once
it fell.
She couldn’t hold it off
any
longer.
It had hung there for
far too long,
taunting her,
teasing it’s imminent
collapse.

Her body shook,
the power of 1906
San Francisco
quaking her
from the inside out,
until she lay
paralyzed,
frozen by the power of it’s
force.
The weight dangled
above her eyes,
shaken loose by
her mind
and soul,
if that even
dwelled inside
of her,
she didn’t know.
Not anymore.

She resigned,
and closed her eyes,
and held her arms
out to the sides,
her hands facing the sky,
begging for it,
wanting for it to obliterate her,
just this time.
Finally
finally
finally.

The darkness
descends.

Original Poetry: © Kelsey H. 5.4.17

Bodega Roses

Bodega Roses

Lower East Side at midnight
his place
filled with lingering
wafts of 3 pm spliffs
and empty bottles
of cheap scotch,
I can never remember
the brand.
It made him feel like
James Bond
or Hemingway
when he drank it.
I didn’t want to
make him feel bad.
Bodega roses
of red and yellow
just for me,
in an old vase
on the kitchen table,
a patched crack
runs down the middle
of the glass.
I run my finger along it,
waiting for it
to pierce my skin,
but it never does.
He never takes his time
before his hands are
running up my legs
and under my skirt,
feeling his way inside,
before he lifts me
and sets me
on the table,
along side the flowers.
My eyes make contact
with their vibrant petals
as my pants
are pushed
to the side.
We have sex because
it’s what people
like us do.
My eyes close
and my mind wanders
to the painting of Ophelia
I saw at the
Tate Britain
a lifetime ago,
and the man who
wept
for her absence.
The bodega roses
come back into focus,
instead of his face.
We don’t make
eye contact
when he fucks me
anymore.
They are facing him,
even though I’m facing
them.
Because the truth is,
only one of us blooms for him.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

Bloomsbury

I saw the
edge of the universe
that I had been seeking
since 1924
at the bottom
of an empty glass
at The London Pub
as the sirens of
Bloomsbury
wailed and
filled my ears,
my eyes connecting
with Virginia Woolf
as I wandered onto
the pavement
of Woburn Place,
but I lost her as I passed
the Tesco Express
across from
the Russell Square stop,
since she said
she’d buy the flowers herself,
as I disappeared
onto the Piccadilly Line,
and she dissolved
into the blooms
of Tavistock Square.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

Bodega Roses

Lower East Side at midnight
his place
filled with lingering
wafts of 3 pm spliffs
and empty bottles
of cheap scotch,
I can never remember
the brand.
It made him feel like
James Bond
or Hemingway
when he drank it.
I didn’t want to
make him feel bad.
Bodega roses
of red and yellow
just for me,
in an old vase
on the kitchen table,
a patched crack
runs down the middle
of the glass.
I run my finger along it,
waiting for it
to pierce my skin,
but it never does.
He never takes his time
before his hands are
running up my legs
and under my skirt,
feeling his way inside,
before he lifts me
and sets me
on the table,
along side the flowers.
My eyes make contact
with their vibrant petals
as my pants
are pushed
to the side.
We have sex because
it’s what people
like us do.
My eyes close
and my mind wanders
to the painting of Ophelia
I saw at the
Tate Britain
a lifetime ago,
and the man who
wept
for her absence.
The bodega roses
come back into focus,
instead of his face.
We don’t make
eye contact
when he fucks me
anymore.
They are facing him,
even though I’m facing
them.
Because the truth is,
only one of us blooms for him.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

The End

It was all about
to end
as the sun
faded
to black
and the crack
inside the
galaxy
shattered
into eternity
and the moon
decided
to leave
and she swiftly took
the seas
to spite
our disappearing light
into the desert
we were led
and all our hope
was surely dead
but as the winds
were screaming
as the blue sky
turned to
red
the last lonesome
thought
to ever
enter my
weary head
was the memory
of you-

dipped in sunlight

stretched across

my king

size

bed

And long after
we all are dead
and into the end
we are led
I hope the Earth
remembers this:

that once

two people

were

happy

here.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.27.17

Us

There are those of us
who roam alone,
who search for fleeting
love,
or escapable intimacies,
who need to touch you
just one more time
or for the first time
because their fear
ate them alive
the last time,
who imagine love
like yellow flowers
and sunshine
in flowing summer fields,
but know that isn’t real
but a fantasy from a movie
or a song
or a poem
they came across
many lives ago,
probably in winter
when their heart was frozen
by the snow,
and they needed to believe
the warmth would come again,
who see themselves
amongst the stars,
floating in the blackness of
the deepest part of space,
until they shock themselves awake,
and realise their mind is actually
the darkest spot
in the universe,
and no matter what they wear to sleep,
the bed stays cold,
even in the summer heat.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 5/1/17

Zenith

Thin silver slivers of midnight moonlight
sliding through silk hanging high
on windows I can’t reach
to open,
needing to free the stale air
of your dead love,
needing to embrace
the cool whispers
of an approaching tomorrow,
when I will forget
that your name
lives forever in the protagonist
of my favourite book,
and you will forget
the scent of my freshly washed hair
on the cotton of your
blue pillowcase,
and we will forget that for
a short, bright time
in an otherwise
achingly dark world,
we found the ecstasy of existence,
we found the zenith
of us.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 2/12/16

Irish Tea

He brought tea to bed
because it’s what his mother had taught him
to do
as a child,
on cold winter nights when the wind
was howling
and rain beat against his windows,
old as his homeland itself,
she would bring him tea,
and he brought it to me
20 years later
in a flat far newer
than that old, worn down house
he took me to
that weekend in April,
when he pretended to still be a Catholic
and crossed himself at Mass
to make his father proud.

He lay tangled in white cotton sheets,
skin grasping on
to a slight tan
from a week of more sun
than his body had seen
all year.
I licked my lips
instinctively
as I watched his fingers
graze the dip in his waist
and squeeze his hip;
I wished my teeth could dig
into his soft flesh
and nibble just a bit
as I kissed further down below
his sheet
that was covering
my favourite spot
on the inner part of his thigh.

His lilt was gentle music
as he whispered against
the skin of my neck,
his full weight on top of me
anchoring me,
freeing me,
as the rain beat against the windows
and soaked into the earth below.
His skin always smelled
like the sea,
even when he was far away
from home.

He told of his plan
to take me to Killarney
and show me where
his mother had come from
when she was just a girl,
when her mother brought her tea,
on cold winter nights
when the wind was howling
and the rain beat against the windows
of her father’s house.

I’m still waiting.

Original Work: KEH 30/11/16

1:10 am

I couldn’t sleep
all I could think of
or imagine is
a better
word
was waking up
to sunshine
pouring through the
windows
and the sheer
white
curtains
as I rolled onto
my side
and saw your back
rising
and falling
as you breathed
deep with
sleep
and I could lean
over
and kiss your
skin beneath
my lips
and it was warm
from cotton sheets
and winter duvets
and autumn sunlight
and my love for you
and I could trace
every
freckle
along your shoulder blades
until I found
the constellation
I was searching for.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 28/10/16