Rogan Kelly

Rogan Kelly is the author of the chapbook Demolition in the Tropics (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019). His work has appeared in Diode, New Orleans Review, The Penn Review, Plume, RHINO, and elsewhere. He is the editor of The Night Heron Barks and Ran Off With the Star Bassoon.

Walking Near Trinity Church

You noticed the hitch in my step,

located a cobbler on the same stretch

of common. I don’t think I had to walk

fifteen more steps before you had me

mended, and out on the street again.

Your honey-do bent.

Your outrageous kiss

Better than Dr, Scholl’s, you said

with your pleased lips pressed

to my closed mouth,

working me into a grin.

You told me your love language

was acts of service but I didn’t know

what that meant. Sweet, I said,

you want to save my life, then. And you laughed

But I didn’t want you

to serve a debt and be done

when I took to you like breath.

Your bombast highs,

your moody broods.

I caught the full glimpse.

I’ll be the fool. Tell it how it is.

You had me at first sight,

your heat and your cool,

your rough touch

(that I never actually liked).

No matter, it was a wrap. Now you tell me,

what’s the act of service to win you back?

Grand Street Cafe, Brooklyn

I was so with you then as not to notice the lofty city above nor the

undertow just beneath our feet as I parked the car in a loading zone

we would have to pay for later. It was one of those days in the city

when the wind rips through you and doesn’t relent. I held your hand

in my jacket pocket and the rest of you close beside and your hip

kept brushing into me in a way that felt sacred and carnal amongst

such public sky. Even in our bundled state and all that weather, I

knew the scent and taste of your skin like you rolled in spice. Could

call it up and have it block out the cold. The cafe was packed, but

you are charming enough that strange men give up their table in a

squall. I looked over my shoulder from the counter at the register

and you were standing there staring at me trying not to smile too

hard. The man now drinking his coffee against the wall as if you had

banished him. His eyes only moved from you to study me. As

curious to know, what I had that made you transfixed.\

You put a mason jar of hot tea,

marked FLOUR, in my hands.

I try to imagine you in your kitchen while I stood freezing

outside your door with the car running idle, double-parked,

wanting to spare you the cold from the stoop to the curb. Just

before: the butcher’s block, the flash of copper, the pedestrian

stack of pots under the ornament of pans — the former lover

you won’t make words for manifests in the Spanish oil you

won’t cook with, takes up residence on the counter next to the

stove, when the teapot begins to fife for me — did you pour

out the flour to steep the tea? Had you exhausted every other

option? Flung open then shut closed the cabinet doors like

end-of-scene applause, while offstage, I walked the thirteen

city blocks back to where I parked the car. I mattered enough

to be given the to-go tea but not trusted to return a proper cup.

These trials of love are some failure in logistics and reason. I

can’t remember why I drove back to your apartment only to

drive away without you other than you told me to. Because

you are reason enough.