James McKee

Unscripted

Jumbled with you in a five-AM embrace,
I lacked words to say, love, how I’d just dreamt
Of coming home one night to find you dead,
And of grief then hunting me through a maze
Of bleached-out, neverending nothingscapes;
But as light through parted curtains revealed
The impatient day outside, I prolonged my hold
As if to prove you mine and not the grave’s.

Lovers long married seldom talk of death,
And if they do, only with an awkward air
Suiting scenarios never run through before,
And this is wise: for how should they confess
Waking to know themselves rehearsed to lose
The still-dreaming spouses they clasp so close?

 

A New Yorker by birth (and likely by death), James McKee enjoys failing in his dogged attempts to keep pace with the unrelenting cultural onslaught of late-imperial Gotham. After taking a degree in English & Philosophy, he held a number of ludicrously unsuitable jobs before spending over a decade as a teacher and administrator at a small special-needs high school. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Acumen, The Raintown Review, Saranac Review, The South Carolina Review, THINK, The Worcester Review, The Rotary Dial, and elsewhere. He currently works as a private tutor and spends his free time, when not writing or reading, traveling less than he would like and brooding more than he can help.

A New Yorker by birth (and likely by death), James McKee enjoys failing in his dogged attempts to keep pace with the unrelenting cultural nslaught of late-imperial Gotham. After taking a degree in English & Philosophy, he held a number of ludicrously unsuitable jobs before spending over a decade as a teacher and administrator at a small
special-needs high school. He currently works as a private tutor and spends his free time, when not writing or reading, traveling less than he would like and brooding more than he can help.