Portrait
KORY KENNEDY

She was born in a garden scraped
from the spaces between ribs and dust.
Her body was more canvas than skin
with the hues of a sunset swirling
together like a watercolor painting.
She held herself together like linen
sheets drying on a clothesline.
At age eight she traded her vocal cords
for guitar strings and words for harmonies.
Brown hair ran down her back
like words on a book spine.
She referred to her scars by the
page number on which they occurred.

I stayed with her for a week once.
She made coffee every morning
so early that the sun rose
ahead of schedule to watch her through the window.
She played classical records as we ate
and spoke of California and Colorado.
The smell from the kitchen and the sounds
of the music met in the air above our
heads and kissed.
We sat on her beach of a couch
and dipped our feet in the ocean of
sunlight splashing in from behind us
onto the wood floors.

​That is how I remember her.