Kerry Kurdziel
—
I Accidentally Read Al Pacino as A.I. Pacino
I have learned it’s really difficult to dispose of certain things:
paint, broken glass, old vacuums.
The pull in my stocking widens and widens
and I think I recognize the face behind the stocking.
There is a stained washcloth
pinched between a door hinge
and it reminds me that falling out of love
is like hearing your favorite song at the grocery store.
I should have left my tab open,
my blouse on the floor, my hands,
busy and warm with grief.
I fear this ache comes from somewhere beyond my bones.
I see it dangling from the mouths of dogs
and from the fingertips of infants.
Sometimes I can see that there is a sunset.
Sometimes, it’s just another light,
orange and blinking.
A torn exit sign.
Plastered across the horizon.
Kerry Kurdziel is a poet currently living in the Greater Boston area. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Journal, Muzzle Magazine, and Euphony Journal. Kerry writes about the strangeness of modern life, interiority, and memory. When she is not writing, you can find Kerry trying her hand at woodworking or going to an ABBA cover band concert.
© Bear Review 2025
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Site Design + Build
October Associates
