I stopped admiring the sky
By Kelsy Bellah
on an icy day in February,
when the morning was gray,
the clouds dark, and the best pieces
of me lay still in the frozen mud. Lungs
drowned in jet fuel, my flyboy’s wings
splayed out beside him, a blood eagle
execution, my backbone exposed,
a victim to a flight in winter.
I put all my faith and all my future
in the hands of a sky that never once
promised to set him down slow or set
him down easy. Now all my curves
have gone rigid, my heart, once soft,
is now a rock. And I can’t tell if it is
the weight of it, or the way gravity has
its wrists shackled to my ankles,
but every evening, I am taunted by
the color drained out of me,
and hung up in the west, held
by a tourniquet on the horizon.
If mortality would lose its grip on me,
there would be sunsets smeared
with scarlet, drenched with wet crimson,
my knuckles bloody, my nails jagged
from clawing through a sky to reclaim
what is mine. Hell hath no fury,
because it all belongs to me. No,
there is nothing beautiful about a sky
that stands between a widow and eternity.
Kelsy Bellah (she/her) is an American poet whose work delves into the complexities of grief, motherhood, and femininity. Her experiences as a young widow and single mother in the South reverberate throughout her writing, highlighting unique aspects of the human condition that we all must navigate: the nuances of love, loss, and resilience. You can find more insight into Kelsy’s life on her website and on her Instagram, @collectingkels.
Artwork Source: “Lady in Red,” Eugene Larkin. From the public domain.
The Turning Leaf Journal 