 Kim D. Bailey, a 2017 Pushcart Prize Nominee, writes Women’s Fiction, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, a weekly column. Kim is a poetry editor for two journals. She is currently editing a third novel and does freelance editorial work. She's published in several online literary journals and print magazines, podcasts, and has taught writing courses online. She currently lives in Fort Oglethorpe, GA with her partner and published poet, S. Liam Spradlin. You may connect with her at www.kimbaileydeal.net or Twitter @kimbaileydeal, Instagram @kimdbaileyauthor or her Facebook page https://m.facebook.com/AuthorKimDBailey/ Serendipity There will be time for sadness again, to wring hands, wail at the half-moon, gnash teeth and shake a fist at God, or whomever, for the losses and pain, but not today. Grief will rest heavy upon the chest and like a cat's claws, dig in for an extended stay to mourn or feel numb to form a sinkhole in the heart, but not today. Another moment of rage will burn hot white, red bloodletting knives will be thrown from our lips and eyes at someone, or something, for the wrongs not righted, but not today. Disappointment will drop by unexpected and unwelcome, to remind us that life is never fair to us or to those we love, a reality check of ups and downs-- but not today. On this day we will climb this tower together, tethered only to one another, tied by beats of our hearts, in sync serendipitous and surreal, and while we gaze above the treetops from this place, or at the clouds from this blanket on the grass, we fly, our feet never leaving the ground. At Last, Arrival The first Saturday in March we met on the corner, Camp House coffee for two, a voice from my phone stated, “You have arrived at your destination.” I looked both ways before crossing searching for a familiar face booked for several months kind eyes, hard to tell the color, but they draw me close and we collide. All at once it's clear your face more familiar than I first believed, your smile a caress and I let you wrap me like a gift, as I fold up within your arms as though my place had been saved bookmarked while our lives transpired, preparations made, hearts broken glued back together with grace given to hope, in all hopelessness, never give up never say die and when I look into your eyes, I know that I know that I know I have arrived. Tourniquet Are we comfortable, content, moving daily toward a dream—or complacent, caught up in sad refrains, reaching but not rising, to meet one another watching the decay, hopeless? What would it take? Teaching moments miss the mark, slide around us, leaving us lonely looking for a way out. Stifling fear and oppression fill the void once overflowing, lingering love lost on echoes of egregious words, killing fields of kindness run with blood; broken hearts and dreams, derailed by deleterious dogma, refusing any outsider purchase on this sacred ground. Blood, it’s all that matters, despite the vows or veneration whispered, wedded. I tripped over my tongue and sprained my ankle aspiring for first place in your heart, I broke my own, shattered against the wall where blood begets bond above all, so this is where I limp away.
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