New Poetry by Kathryn Guelcher

Kinship

Once love has been established
there is always someone else
who ignites anxiety. Not the,
are-you- having- an –affair
sort of worry. It’s more the,
if- his- wife- and- I- were- both- hit- by-
buses-you- would- remarry- each-other
kind of concern.

For my part, there is only one
named Brittney.
(since Lauren with dead eyes is out of reach)
Brittney is barely twenty-something
with a figure.
She is nice and thinks my husband is funny.
And he teases her.
And she loves him
almost openly
because she can.
When, one Friday, he asked her
what the work drama was there,
she placed a sure hand on his hip
and suggested they create some.

This makes me like her. Sort of.
It makes me remember fondly
the aching enchantment
that is hers
but mostly mine.

I went there once in the heat of summer
to be analyzed, apparently.
Under her youthful, sideways glare, I felt
the weight of motherhood and envy and age
also confidence and contentment.

Mostly I felt glad that I had gotten
there so many years earlier,
twenty-something myself and glad also
that there were no buses
in sight on that long stretch of back road


- Kathryn Guelcher 2012