Contributions by Victoria Kelly

Issue 13 | Winter 2013

Standing on the Airfield, Before War

By | Poetry

If there is one thing I should say before you go, it should not be about standing on some driveway in Pensacola, baptized by airplanes. It should not be that the house was bare and there was no food, but we were young and the airplanes were like tiny glass toys in the sky, and …

Issue 13 | Winter 2013

To My Husband, Flying over Afghanistan

By | Poetry

a cento The pilot alone knows the chill of closed eyelids in the glaring white gap; the wired minefield; the stars in active orbit. And all is from wreck, here, there— the hot black dunes in the air. Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday; how fibrous and incidental it all …

Issue 13 | Winter 2013

Kwansaba for a Wounded Warrior

By | Poetry

Colin laughs and says he hasn’t met his wife yet among the nurses at Brooke Army Medical Center. “In Kunar, when we were kicking off, and those hajjis were flaming up the road, I wished for any girl. But I’ll tell you— that was the baddest show on earth.”

Issue 13 | Winter 2013

Almost

By | Poetry

I can imagine living a whole life in the house my parents almost bought in Morris Plains across from the train station; the way I almost played Red Light, Green Light in that park next to the library and almost went to school at St. Virgil’s Parish, on Speedwell Avenue; the way my father almost …

Issue 13 | Winter 2013

The Messengers 

By | Poetry

How can you help picturing it, the small huddle on your doorstep— the commander; the priest who married you; the women with their sad, drawn faces. You know the only message you will get from the pink, blistered mountains of Kabul is the one that comes when you’re thinking about the dishes or out buying …

Issue 13 | Winter 2013

When the Men Go Off to War

By | Poetry

What happens when they leave is that the houses fold up like paper dolls, the children roll up their socks and sweaters and tuck the dogs into little black suitcases. Across the street the trees are unrooting, the mailboxes rising up like dandelion stems, and eventually we too float off, the houses tucked neatly inside …