by Kathy Bailey


Are you in this universe? In these stars?

In this large pasture of land that feels like another planet?

Are we in the south? Or is this the mid-west? Or am I alone

In my house, someplace in Arizona, wondering about a life that

Does not exist, never has, and never will?

Did we ever meet? Did we ever exist?

Is it summer or is it winter? Why does your voice

Sound and look like false air?


I do not cook, but you do. You cook all Sunday and I wonder

If when you eat the bread you taste me in your gut. Do you feel


Me in your finger tips or see me in the steam?

When you sleep at night, do you dream my middle name?

Have I told you that I’m sorry for existing?


If I have not, I’m sorry for having existed.


I’m sorry for my voice. I’m sorry for the sand and for the bread,

And the sex we will never have. And I’m sorry for the south

And for having existed in seasons that do not exist on this planet.


There is no future in us. Drink the tea.

Listen to the night buzz and wonder if winter will ever come.

For your sake, I hope it does not. I hope that the rocking I do

Keeps you up at night and surrounds you— And that the thought of my body against your skin


Turns you still.


Kathy Bailey holds a Master of Fine Arts from the University of Arizona in poetry, and a B.A. in Creative Writing from Western Michigan University, where she double minored in Communications and Women’s studies. She has worked as an English Professor and college Administrator for the last twelve years.  In the last few months, she has appeared in both The Sky Island Journal, and the Bangalore Review.  She currently resides in Tucson, Arizona.

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