BIO
Amy Kitchell-Leighty earned her MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars. Her work can be found in journals such as Bellevue Literary Review, Unrorean, Lady Ink, Main Street Rag, Salamander, and many others. She has taught at various places including high schools and prisons. Amy lives in southern Illinois with a husband, two dogs, and a cat. |
At 35
I’m anxious on this ferris-wheel. The ramp feels rickety beneath the flip-flops I’m now hoping won’t flip off. After all the media I see of carnie’s half-assing assembly rides, why shouldn’t I feel this way? Fifteen years ago I’d hop on the back of any crotch rocket—the faster the better— barely hold on as my long hair whipped at my face, water surged from my eyes. Today is different-- I look at the man locking the bar across my lap. He smiles. He’s wearing a sleeveless tank, jeans frayed at the bottom. I smile back, thank him for tugging at the metal bar. In ’89 Bill and I rode a Greyhound to King’s Island. Like paparazzi, cameras snapped at us when entering the park. We rode on every rollercoaster they had: The Screaming Eagle, The Racer, The Beast, The Vortex. We made out behind the lockers in the water park area; he’d made it to third base when a group of teenagers walked by busting us. Now I’m back to today and this ferris-wheel that gives me a jolt. I grip the cool bar (I think: I should lather on hand sanitizer when I get off). And as the air begins to move slowly around my cheeks, my neck, Brett Michael’s voice roars from the speakers below caught between heaven and hell, where’s the girl I knew a year ago. The carnie throws up his hand to me in a wave, winks, and jerks a lever that makes my seat rise. |
For June in March
Virginia June Dukes Durall 1924-2011 It’s March and it’s raining after a long winter that will be your last. This rain will bring crocuses chased by tulips and lilies. You pushed fingers into soil turning your yard into a fantasy garden we explored as kids. The fish pond is thawing, the porch swing at rest and it’s March and it’s raining on your greenhouse rooftop sliding down glass windows where empty pots line shelves, your pink flip-flops waiting by the steps. |