Five poems by ​​Kimberly Ann Southwick

Updated: Nov 22



I run far & fast & I’m gone like the light, a switch

I turn off every morning next to the outdoor sinks.

My vision blurs with unintentional color & light swallowed,

a pattern that replaces the hurt; how the music doesn’t matter or

the music is all that matters. Where are the answers? Sometimes,

someone beats me to it. I looked again & there you were: a beacon.

The diamonds, the circles in only my field of vision circling out.

I’m in a field, but it’s a discipline. I’m in a field, but it’s a wall instead,

a wall under the staircase to the left of the festival stage &

you’re pressing me up against it & you’re holding my small hands