Strings

I tried to write my memoirs but they all turned
into poems. It’s like flying a kite at the beach
next to a couple of marauding seagulls, hovering
in the wind. Maybe the two aren’t so different.
One curls around time and space—elongating
memory. The other simply does it better with tighter spirals
of condensed circles. It takes a bit to get used to.
Not everyone can stretch out a thought
without damaging their concentration. Others
take the long way home contemplating the constellations
of freckles across their ex-lover’s neck, mapping them out
as a message: We are all damaged.
I suppose I could have told you a story about my mother
whose loathing helped spill me onto the page
or how abandonment seats me deeply in any chair—
anywhere—I sit.
But what’s so special about that?
I’d rather exchange it for something else
we all go looking for once we catch wind of it—like
a kite without a string, launching us
into existence.

Kristy McCoy earned her BFA from Penn State Erie and her MFA from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. She currently teaches English Composition at Penn State Erie. She tries to juggle all that motherhood and partnership will allow.

She grew up on a military base in Seoul, South Korea, to her American father and Korean mother. Her original creative work started out in nonfiction but she came out the other side writing poetry.

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