The Cord

Gillian Kessler Poetry

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With two fingers I move

upward across soft fields of

golden hay,

a California sunset.

The sun dips and flares.

My mama is far away.

My land is far away.

This perch on rock,

this full bottle.

Greetings, my name is Empty.

My name is Still.

When sacred spaces wake

belly between knees

the edge of a tattered sofa

ordinary Monday  

senses open one and then

all at once

you are a quake in my system

a tsunami that tears through my tiny town

shoulders wide

open me again and again

there are bed posts

wooden and carved

spirals and flowers and seashells and sand


so much rain

the ocean and her tendency towards tides

her relentless ways

the red flurry, landscape, ancient petroglyphs

form between us

the vast and open skies

scent of lilac from frozen ground.


About the Author

Gillian Kessler

Gillian Kessler can be found dancing to loud music, teaching exuberant children to appreciate language, writing in the early morning when everyone is asleep and exploring the wilds of Montana with her beautiful family. Read more about her eclectic and full life at .

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May 2015 – Better Together
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