Kelly Fiore was born and raised in Frederick County, Maryland. She received a BA in Creative Writing from Salisbury University and an MFA in Poetry from West Virginia University. Kelly writes both Poetry and Young Adult (YA) Fiction. Her poetry has appeared in Potion, Samzidada, and Grolier Review, among others. Her novel, Gods of Rock, recently received representation at Foundry Literary and Media in NYC and is currently being shopped to publishers. Kelly teaches English and lives in Hagerstown, Maryland with her husband, Matt, and son, Max. She is excited to be teaming up on Connotation Press with so many talented writers and artists.
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Entering Malacca
The Moluccas are the Spice Islands of history and legend that fired the imagination of Roman scholar Pliny and beckoned Sinbad the Sailor… Malacca was fabled and golden; one of the most important destinations on earth – Charles Corn, The Scents of Eden
1.
Sleep –
a sweet purr under water,
under rudder.
The power begins. A small fertilizer rising,
a needed quench.
For without you, there would be no
“entry way,” no “gate.”
And, like an open wound, a slice
that hurts and re-breaks
with pressure - - -
you are unwittingly, unwillingly
blamed
for giving up control.
2.
Let me classify you like Delphi,
draw the picture of your golden.
How sun and light brighten,
you obtained an “inner energy” - -
not a heartbeat, not a vein.
But heat, like desire
and the womb of a woman.
What can’t be said yet is the tongue
of you – how potent and centered
like a navel.
How many it hurt & how
much it stung.
In a good way. In a kiss.
In the best kiss of your life.
In the kiss of death.
(Is this too much?)
You – so beautiful it tears.
The string of you, a slip
of moist coats emptying
bite after bite
into open men.
You say, “look, don’t touch.”
But you also say, “Eat me.”
3.
Though small, the cannons reached
far enough.
I can only see the perspective
of the hills and the water:
for though we shook, we had a glove encasing our body.
We embraced you for years,
the way we would
a naval officer,
the way we would
our father.
It was supposed to be home,
like for a pet – except we’re grounded,
we multiply, we make promises.
4.
You’ve become a wisp, Malacca.
Where is your whisper?
You’ve sold all your secrets
like a fashion.
Exhausted, you are a spent
lover who skipped supper
just to be bedded
again and again.
Of course I am angry,
my back to you,
my breast heaving against
pillow and heaving.
Your skin has become any other skin.
That whiff of nutmeg?
That hint of clove?
It must be a cologne.
5. O Malacca (14th c.)
This can be nothing but a weeping
a loss of something necessary
a weakening
You thought, “Yes!”
to dressing up your women.
to the wave.
to Portugal.
Any boats can float
& the tiny hands
shook alone and shook yours.
The root here is
exasperation and love,
a lament that tastes like salt.
a mowing over.
a moving.
an evacuation.
The Birds of the Bosphorous
Wings sweep in more of a cycle,
but it’s the new “caw,”
a throaty seagull’s hack, that
scratches the cobble.
Not the Atlantic’s mew–a louder meow,
with an underbelly, a phlegm.
The pigeons, too, seem to cry differently.
A coo turned staccato and almost angry.
I can’t see these winged ladies
as close as I see them at home
but, here, we are all
cloaked by something.
Again, these flights are hoarse
and only sound western
toward the end of their call –
high pitched and truly desperate.
All tones vary, but this startling hum –
it’s as if they have been moaning for more
than just scraps, as if their voices
were inherited and they remember.
Good Fences
Along Route 75, the thick stumps and chicken wire curled into netted parentheses are my favorites. Some wooden slats, thin side up, notch into a larger husband; trunk like and sturdy, a base. This is an order in nature I can respect, but not for what’s withheld. Instead, these boundaries separate territory and terrain – from plateau to grassy knoll, these divisions show a heart for what controls itself, like a yard for a puppy, a tree house for a child. Human leeway appears, even around the corn crop, for fear it may bow over the line and make a run for it. Given time, the ivy will overthrow the barn wall; the privet will eat the paved drive. It’s not that order is more beautiful, or even possible: the long rods or white plastic blocking, chain link around the dog pen or picketing, not just for show. How can we determine what’s ours and what isn’t? This thin ownership is too loose to actually count. It’s a human love of belonging that makes us latch the gate, a swing into and out of this world like we own it.
Pasture
The cows go out, but I don’t mind following – the longer grasses are a different green; given time to grow, their thin banners have more to wave to. Driving past other fields, I’ve wondered if the splotchy patches mean less tending, mean drought, mean a slovenly keeper. It is empty to be surrounded by so many farms and not be in one – childless on Mother’s Day, a vessel waiting and not working hard enough. The best days are the hottest – when the body becomes slick and bulbous under pressure. When the fences feel like a net to keep you in or catch you. Once at the table with a tall drink, the swelling will go down. Out here, we fill the space left by becoming large in heat, following a herd so unlike our bodies, it’s as if even our desire is transformed.
Rising to the top
Like an attic, the cream always knows where to settle. First, the jar seemed too large for the inhabitant – the way, sleeping next to you, I always seem to take up too much space. In the morning, the thick milk begins to divide into defined layers, a density changed by time, a new mindedness. There have been days when you’ve seemed perfect – a slide into and out of day like sun. Other times, it’s like I work too hard to keep you: this cream the way you like it, the eggs too pale and saucy, my body shrinking to what’s left.