In These Layers
In just nine lines, Alex Kitt‘s knockout poem ‘complicated grief’ (Issue 34) dives deep into the reverberations of loss.
And we are delighted to share another of Alex’s poems, which he has kindly gifted us, here. In this piece, we see again his deft exploration of resilience and cycles of return — to one’s self, to nature, to the source of poetic inspiration.
About this new piece, Alex tells us: “Growing up in Alberta, I was accustomed to long lines of sight, an open sky, and an open sense of surroundings. When I moved to Vancouver for university, with the big Pacific trees, and countless apartment complexes and commercial buildings, I felt like I could only ever see a little porthole of sky above my head. My job, and university, and other life-events also seemed to push in from all sides. Moments to check in on myself were pretty rare, and if I wanted any of that openness, I had to seek it out. And so, the beach — or any place I could look out over things — helped allow return after periods of absence.“
This day. A beach.
I am not giving in to pain when I tell you that the ocean looks like glass. Not pain, not shattered
glass — it is strong. The tide is pulling out now. I broke my skin while walking the coastline.
Barnacles on rocks and stones being turned over by gulls and crows for crabs. I walked to the
seawall. I saw a great bird with feather-wet scales. The glass a puddle before mountains. I’m not
giving in to pain when I tell you the folds in these hills — clouds pouring through — that these are
where I find myself. I find a puny wisp of my soul in these layers — pine green almost blued by
the belly of the clouds, a rolling blanket above — thick — barely allowing light through. I am not
giving in to pain, I am not. I see a stranger in a dark coat throwing a ball along the shore. Their
dog races. I have a thousand words. They have a thousand words. They walk on. I am not giving
in to pain when I hear the shape of the sky in the ships long horn. I am not giving in to pain when
the bird cracks the shell — dropping it on the rocks from a great height. I am not giving in to pain
when I see people. This man asks a boy the breed of his dog but does not hear — wind stealing his
voice. When the wind picks up — further. When the tide continues. When the dock looks thin and
dark and beautiful. When everything around me is so much and I shift, and my leg is asleep, and
I see a man in the ocean swimming. High arches of water, each violent splash, each breath — I
will not give in, each breath, I will not give in to pain, each breath, smoke along the coastline
drags, wind, each breath, things like the willows sway, each breath, there is a boy who pulls off
his shirt, breath, he’s running, breath, grabs driftwood, lifts it, breath, both hands, breath.
He stabs it into the earth.
Alex Kitt is a writer and poet who was born in Red Deer, Alberta. He now lives in Vancouver where he is completing his BFA in Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia. His work can be found in White Wall Review, Lida Literary Magazine, NōD Magazine, and UBC’s Writing in the Time of COVID anthology. And look for a new short story by Alex, coming up in Pulp Literature Issue 36, Autumn 2022!
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