If I could sing there are songs I’d sing all the time// and I don’t know what I’m you for so// it looks like the owl went through a small child// again a piece of paper// the shelf to salvage// a season with my graft infection// when I clutched on this particular story about the beeping noise if// I could sing I’d never shut// up unannounced to netherworld// for all of the trash in the ocean is going to be for a long// time since I did any drawing a blank// page is one of my favorite colors that// gives me a stupid question// whether or not someone made me so angry// at least five recently published peer-reviewed journals// give us the opportunity for unbridled passion// of the Christ// child again for all those who are projected to be// without changing their minds// think alike of this// the most bummer road trip playlist ever since// my flight to feel nervous// about driving the// ocean is going to be a big fiction// and fantasy world where// you can have fresh air by// the time we get to meet up with// subjects to write about late last night// I had a very specific pattern of notes that// the themes would have felt stronger if// I could sing there are songs I’d sing all the time.

 

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Kerrin Smith was born in Maryland and she lives in Baltimore. Her poems have appeared in The Avenue, Banshee, Rock & Sling, Seltzer, Skelter, Welter, and the anthology Nasty published by Babe Press. She has contributed a short essay to Cartridge Lit, and is also the author of several ten-minute plays. If she’s sitting, she’s knitting.

Twitter: @infinite_ugh