I saw bone-deep
through a Picasso eye.
I read the sky & wrote my life.”
—Elsa Colligan


Read Kay's poetry in
Rattle, Vol. #16
The Reach of Song
Sow's Ear, Vol. 10 #3
Storyboard 7 & 8


For more Poets


Contact Kay Gantt
Kay Gantt Kay Gantt

The Match

Six feet two, supple as a babe at birth ,
you serve the ball left handed though
your dominance is right. Makes
the game almost fair you say —
even then you up me by four games.

Cheek bones chiselled by the gods,
you are the conundrum of my heart,
reading Tolstoy, quoting Ayn Rand.
Maybe meningitis shuffled your deck
funny leaving a gap between your
aces & your tens.

Sweaty socks chunked in dirty tennis shoes,
laundry heaped on chairs, you swim,
an Olympian empowered by a force
garnered from your dad. You flip turn,
shoot under water, surface like a shark.

As if I were a bystander at your birth
I watched you swim free, drag
your twin brother from the hinterland
of my inner acre.

Today gray gathers at your temples,
brutish whiskers shadow 5:00 PM.
Am I in labor yet — your birth quartered
in my belly? I brace for another wicked serve.
Shimmer-sleek, you slip an ace
past me, wink, still spitting afterbirth.

Kitchens of Marriage

To Marathon Home Depot
over Flagler's seven miles bridge,
the water's blotted bright

beneath a piebald sky,
ominous where shaded by
dark blue thunderheads.

At the store with a sales rep,
we choose countertops for the kitchen
at the beach. I campaign for Corian,

he Wilsonart. Like paperdolls
we plan our lives with cut-outs.
Corian, he mutters. We go

with Wilsonart. Our fevers rise
like steam off collard greens.
We cook in conjured kitchens;

he bakes bread, I stew apples
in their skins. Heading home
the day hardens as it ends.

Static clouds roil in the distance,
wait for us as if they know
what marriages can weather.