In the spring of 2019, poet Matthew Kelsey suffered the loss of his mother. Less than a year later, he would lose his father to COVID-19. The following is a poem-interview between Keith Leonard (questions) and Matthew Kelsey (answers) that began in June of 2019.
What shape is the window of longing?
The window of longing is circular, in general. But it’s also an Apollonian Gasket, comprised of many smaller circles within it. Each circle recalls all other circles, just as each longing recalls all other longings.
Is the ocean a good father to the lake? A pond a good brother to a puddle?
The pond to a puddle, yes—they both know what smallness is. But the ocean is too estranged from the lake to know it. Too big to see the lake is also big.
Or: never. Neither. The river mothers them all.
Why do you think the trees stand so still and stare like that? What are they waiting for?
They’re staring because they asked us a question a long time ago.
They’re still, still listening.
The question they asked?
What are you all waiting for?
What is the minute hand of the clock planning to do with its free weekend next month?
It’ll probably take some time to put familiar increments and movements in perspective. It’ll dream of the many other faces it hasn’t yet met, can’t ever meet. And then, once it’s had ample time to indulge in thoughts, beautiful and difficult alike, it’ll return to the honor of serving the day’s hours.
If the wind shouts “All rise!” like a bailiff, and the rain harrumphs down like a judge finding their seat, what listens and chronicles like a stenographer?
The winds and the rains hold court, but it’s something less physical that acts as stenographer, and it’s different for each of us. For me, it’s the apparition of my mother. In fact, she was a real stenographer for New York State in the 1960s, a
