The Gift Of Forgetting
The problem with the past is that it lasts forever.
Ten years from now I will still be lying
on my bed trying to write this poem.
My husband will still be sitting near me
checking his email and watching video tutorials.
Sometimes I get lost in the concept of time.
Like how as soon as I type a word it is gone,
but the next one comes and then the next and the next
and eventually I realize the whole world is made up
of little clicks, a chain of events that doesn’t exist.
The proof is in the reading, in the memory, in the passing on.
Ten years ago I was drunk and driving myself and a lover home.
I was concentrating on keeping the dotted lines
to the left side of the car when he told me I love you.
I kept driving straight and said great, let’s get married.
He said fine, but only if we remove your legs
so I can spin you around on my dick.
We laughed then, got home, stumbled upstairs to my bed,
passed out upon each other, and woke up tangled,
the day almost over. I am not that girl anymore,
but I will always be that girl. That lover is gone and my husband
likes my legs the way they are. But when I hear the word spin
my mind thinks of love. When I drive late at night
the road blurs and I wonder if I’m still drunk.
As of 2015: Kelly Jones works and plays in New Orleans, LA and in Durham, NC. A good deal of their adult life has been devoted to earning pieces of papers that verify their knowledge of things (resulting in an MFA in Poetry and a BA in Literature and Social Justice). They are terribly fond of manatees, glitter, Wild Turkey, and bad dancing. In their spare time they run The Gambler Mag, consume copious amounts of coffee, go on walks with their dog, and try to come to terms with the concept of infinity.