Poetry by Kris Demien
Summer calls my name. I wake thinking that,
and roam the house at 3am looking—
There’s no one anywhere in the house,
but me. Back in bed, I roll over looking
for sleep to hold me, but Summer calls again.
I go to the kitchen and find
a glass in the cupboard without turning
on the lights. I open the tap, run the water over
my hand until it’s cold and fill the glass.
Walking up the stairs to my bedroom I feel
each step carefully with my foot. Blind without
my glasses, the dark doesn’t matter. The water
doesn’t spill. Through an open
window I hear the voices, then, at the bus
stop outside. They lift and drop with emphasis:
“…and then I told him…”
I listen, but I don’t hear my name.
At this time, Kris works at finding meaning in a life full of the unexpected, and planning real life experiences she can share with her grandchildren. She’s taught in high schools with diverse and underserved students for three decades, camped her way around Ireland, bred three litters of puppies, and performed as an extra in movies. To ground, she meets with fellow poets to share the joy of composing word music.