Poetry from Kaitlen Whitt

Photo: JP Valery

Calling Hours

My grandmother grew up
hatchet handed
beheading chickens.

She tells me when she sees
the shooter on the news
that she never plugged her ears.

His lines, ghost blurry
self-made reaper
anointed in our stars

sewn from our fear.
Walker Razors
to drown out the wailing.

But we hear it,
states away
tucked between mountains

pit in the peach
a familiar grief
sweeps the hollows

squats on the stripped knoll.
Coyotes mourn
the pine thickets.

Girls in the backpack village
scream at the moon.
Bitches counted

among our growing heap of dead.
We open the house,
invite in the dark

sleep swimming.
Our ears ring. To witness,
it’s the very least we can do.
.

.
Kaitlen Whitt earned her master’s in poetry from Virginia Tech. She has composed stories for broadcast on West Virginia Public Radio and has published work with Matador Network, Natural Bridge, The Blue Earth Review, Still: The Journal, New Note Poetry, Naugatuck River Review, Appalachian Heritage, and Bodega Magazine.