Three poems by Isabel Kestner

When He Comes Home

Take the cup to your lip.
It’s not holy water, I know,
not even wine.  But take a sip.
Slowly.  Something to burn the tongue.
Lift your head, push your back into
the wall, wrap the blanket tighter
around, let your hands out.
Hold the cup, it’s hot, your fingers
can feel again.  Don’t worry about
where you’ve been.  Just lift the cup
up to your lips.  In a little bit,
if you’re doing better, I’ll help
you light a cigarette.  I’m sorry,
but this is the best I have to give.


The center of the earth is not solid;
molten lava, liquid.  I look at the
cherry of my cigarette and think
that must be what it’s like; fire
in the color of orange-red, a color
we have not truly defined yet.


of the game postponed
by visions of the day
light in black hearted
rumors of the
and for a moment
you were forgiven.

One Response to “Three poems by Isabel Kestner”

  1. Donal Mahoney Says:

    Very fine work, terse and dealing with subject matter many poets probably wouldn’t touch. Encore, encore.

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