Posted by: youareuseless | July 20, 2010

Maybe Will

This is an old prompt for “carry on tuesday,” found at

Where, now? What is the last?
A copper house, a wire clasp.
Two grasping lilies in June.
I spoke too soon.

When, now? When do I feel?
When is the tangible task?
When do I reach my arms to the sky
Without a Why?

Who, now? What is a vase?
It must contain a flower.
But what if it seeks, and looks, and hates
At every hour?

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 18, 2010


I would like to thank Esther at the YouTube channel yogatic for the inspiration for this poem.

Open your sitbones, she says.
I picture a dinosaur pelvis,
Opened by two archaeologists,
Like the wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner.

Turn your thighs away from each other.
My thighs do what I ask, though I don’t know what I’m asking.

The sitbones open, like Newton’s balls
Rolling in opposite directions.
They are like two points of a triangle.
The hot, glowing point is open.

What is it like, without this top point?
No hot, glowing source, just skin
From skin, on skin?

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 17, 2010


Writing prompt for Writer’s Island, found at Theme: Reunion.

Her old mouth contracts. She won’t talk about her son.
A man who let me drink coffee once is now
Not quite, gone.
He smiles, trying, though he knows it’s grotesque.
Two plump yellow eyes in his tiny head.

Count your blessings, little girl, count your blessings.

He’s not bred well, she laughs. She laughs!
He’s surprised when I ask what his favorite is.
Watch my drink, I ask, and he runs
Skinny dirty legs in the dappled grass.

The man in the weathered hat said, you could just
Ladle it out! You could just ladle it out!

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 17, 2010

After A Visit

For Three Word Wednesday, found at

My hands, light as ripped paper.
They have lost their object.
Where have you gone?
My own body is now as vulgar
As an empty bottle.

Why are you hard to remember?
I know you are gone, because I am
I know you are gone, and the darkness
No longer warms me.

Your hipbone, like a rock under the sand.
A gentle word is not your body.
Your sharp insistent eyes. Your sharp insistent hands.
This praise is not your body.
You can praise me, but I will not be lovely
I will not be lovely without the orb of your mouth
To awaken me.

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 15, 2010

Tomato poem for Magpie Tales

Hairy stem, rough as a goat’s underbelly.
This fruit has kept its musk.
Which is best? The round lust,
Or that burst of taut skin, deep juice,
Those shocking seeds in the sweetness.

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 15, 2010

Poems forthcoming

I’m back! I was out of town for a week, which was wonderful, but I definitely abandoned my one-poem-a-day duties. Trying to get back in the swing.

In the meantime, I would very much like to thank Fiona at A Handful of Stones for publishing two of my little stones. They can be found today and on August 9th at Thanks Fiona!

Posted by: youareuseless | July 6, 2010


An experiment in rhyme and repetition. This isn’t any particular meter. I was inspired to rhyme by reading Nicholson Baker’s “The Anthologist,” which I would highly recommend! It’s a novel about a poet a bit past his prime struggling to write an introduction to an anthology of rhyming poems. Reads like a conversation with a funny, down-to-earth, yet very learned friend.

On a dark day in the summer
The sky has no more color
Than another day in winter
When we forget our limbs.

On a dark day, in the summer
We flee from one another
Mixing water, wasting paper
Since nothing can begin.

Since nothing can begin
We flee from one another
The day-lilies are willing
They are more willing than us.

They are more willing than us
To stretch their shining bodies
On a dark day in the summer
To the gray light of the sun.

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 5, 2010


In a corner, a small room
In someone else’s house, I stood
In front of you. You grasped my hand
And laughed, as if to say What is this space
Between your body
And my body? And why is it here?

I kissed your mouth, tilting my head
Up, like a cat. Your eyes hardened. Your body
tense against the wall. I can’t, you almost said.
I only imagine. My body is as clean and dark
As the sand at the bottom of the ocean.

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 3, 2010


This is for Big Tent Poetry, found here:

A second attempt at a conversation poem.

A question lingers. Why?

Well, why do you ask? Must a question end?
Do you wish I was at peace? Are you?

We are doing very well now.

I don’t believe you. I see how you twitch
when he speaks. He never laughs at your jokes.
But you don’t make jokes, do you? You wait
for him, or the dog.

You wouldn’t know, you haven’t lived here. We are very happy.

Then why are your eyes darting
like a rabbit in the road? It’s not
my business, it’s not
my place, I know, but —


I’m glad you’re happy.

Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010

Posted by: youareuseless | July 3, 2010

Feeble “conversation poem” for Big Tent

Scrabble, or cards? He pleaded. Scrabble?
Cards? Janet doesn’t like cards. Henry hates Scrabble.
We could talk? Why don’t you enjoy the people! The chips
languished on the table. I could play cards. She smiled
wondering why she had come.

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