Letter to My Wife
How can I even speak?
There's a sorrow so big
neither of us can touch it.
I can only say this because you're not here
become instead a she
I move through like the perfumed air
after you shower.
You are wearing your glasses
maybe pearl earrings, a barrette…
maybe you are going out
to shop or to the garden — to practice
or meet a friend.
You are right here.
You are letting me kiss you.
It is quiet, late morning October.
A sorrow so big
we can't talk.
We can't even touch it.
enjoys his day job teaching at De Anza College where he advises and edits Red Wheelbarrow
. He also coordinates with Poetry Center San José the Red Wheelbarrow
Poetry Prize—this year’s judge, Naomi Shihab Nye. Ken has published two volumes of poetry with Hummingbird Press, including Anything on Earth
(2010). Ken’s past includes the Santa Cruz Brass Quintet, a decent glove, opposite-field hitting, a sidearm curveball, very cool sons, and brilliant daughters-in-law. Recent work appears in Perfume River Poetry Review, Catamaran, Nine Mile, Porter Gulch Review,
Ken also teaches poetry writing at Salinas Valley State Prison.