Kell Connor

Sharp air. Marigold, the scent of the other world, the underworld, on a clear day. Lilac, soft red wheat. She will miss it: The carnal, that char of desire. That bitter register, the marigolds again, the color of cartoon flames. Body heat trapped beneath a worn quilt. I go into the next room and its the same room repeatd, she writes. That's the softness of this world, or all she can know of it. It's as fragile as foam. Where her form ends something else begins in the warm air. or I go into the next room and its the same room repeatd, she writes. It feels like receding, like something sneaking away and then coming right back through a different door. At a certain point a sense of place just assembles from thin air. I am inside my arrival, she writes. And here the phrases begin to fall apart at all points, too tender for our grammar.

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Kell Connor lives in Nebraska. Their work appears in Bennington Review, Verse, Columbia Poetry Review, Peach Mag, and elsewhere. Kell is the author of two chapbooks, For Destruction (Doom Town Records USA, 2019) and Final Diaries (New Michigan Press, 2021).

Cover of Final Diaries

Tucson, Arizona

Finalist for the DIAGRAM/New Michigan Press 2021 Chapbook Contest.

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