by Sarah Mackey Kirby

I decided when I grew up,
I’d have a quiet house.
Where snapping wind-tapped twigs
and magnolia leaves traced
open window.

Where vitriol didn’t
bleed through walls,
and slammed back doorsdid not exist.
Where only eager, barking dogs
could break no-loud-noise code.

Where tiptoed morning socks
would press against old oak slats
in perfect creak of settled floor.
Toward hush-baked kitchen’s
hot coffee drips.

Where fear-shake voices
didn’t upset nerves. And
sniffling noses stayed
reserved for colds.
Where yells accompanied
just good news.

A firefly porch where
Summer tea ice
moved in lemoned glass,
as porch swing drifted
through nighttime June.

Where Southern rain fell
fat drops of peace.
Where hearts never sped.
And quiet stairs led
to cozy, laugh-messed bed.
Where dreams kept quiet, too.
&
&

Sarah Mackey Kirby

Sarah Mackey Kirby holds a Master of Arts in Teaching and a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science. Her writing and photography have been published in US News & World Report. She and her husband live in Louisville, Kentucky with their sweet cat and misbehaving Cockapoo.

Artist: Merve Ozaslan