Kevin Pilkington, a member of the writing faculty at Sarah Lawrence College, boasts a prolific literary career. With ten poetry collections and two novels to his name, Pilkington has established himself as a versatile and accomplished author. His latest poetry collection, “Playing Poker With Tennessee Williams,” showcased his nuanced storytelling and was warmly received upon its publication by Black Lawrence Press in 2021. Following the success of his poetry, Pilkington ventured into the realm of fiction with his second novel, “Taking On Secrets,” published by Blue Jade Press in 2022. Through his writings, Pilkington invites readers into worlds both familiar and fantastical, captivating audiences with his evocative prose and keen insight into the human experience.

2019

I’m sitting at the kitchen table writing
a couple of Christmas cards when my dad
walks in from the other room. I drop my pen
as if I’m looking at a ghost and of course
he says, stop thinking that I’m not. Before
I can say anything he adds, the reason you look
younger is you have more hair than I did
at your age and there wasn’t any Rogaine around
when I was alive. Yes there was I tell him
and never mind that, where is mom?
She is around somewhere, you know how eternity
is. No I don’t. Different rules my boy although
you haven’t been a boy in years. However I
haven’t been down here since the heart attack.
Didn’t see that coming. Dad there is so much
I want to ask you. What do you do all day?
You used to love to work and your favorite hobby
was yelling at us. Most of all the God thing.
What are His preferred pronouns? You used to get
mad at me for failing math and science. At least
I didn’t fail creation. Only an underachiever would
create this kind of world. There are wars around the clock,
people go hungry and cancer is starving. Kids are shot
in schools and there is a fool in the White House.
What the fuck! He shook his head in disgust and said
he was sorry then walked back into the next room.
I jumped up, hurried in looked around then went over
to the window to see if he was outside. It was snowing
heavy but knew he was gone or he would have been
on the sidewalk painting the storm the color of Dublin.

Wedding on the Fire Escape

A couple across the street
were standing on the fire escape
of the tenement six stories up.
The first five I had already read.
The pandemic was a few months
old and the streets with traffic heavy
as poundcake were empty. Most
of the city sounded like a photograph.
The couple were in jeans and down
vests and the flowers in the bride’s hair
were plastic so even COVID couldn’t
kill them. Another woman on the next
fire escape read from a bible. Some friends
were looking up from the street in masks
with enough space between them to fit most
of Rhode Island. With hospitals full no one
else could make it. After the couple kissed
a small bouquet of flowers dropped from
the bride’s hands like a tiny parachute.
Their friends applauded and hurried back
to their apartment windows where at 7pm
the entire city went to bang on pots and pans.
It’s how we thanked all those who worked
so the rest of us could stay in and stay safe.
They were the ones even thousands of Marvel
superheroes could never touch. So we banged
those pots for doctors, nurses, grocery workers.
We banged and rattled another kind of prayer
for the 21st century. We kept banging and rattling
a high rise of noise so the next passing angel
would have to cover both ears with its wings.

The New Virus

I moved into the city fifteen
years ago and now have a slight
concrete accent. I’m fine with it
since the sidewalks taught me
if I let everyone walk all over me
don’t expect anything in return.
Also it’s best to think like real estate.
In case I lose another job, I can
always collect rent to pay my own.

I stopped worrying about all the new
buildings going up since I found
I can throw my clothes over any
of them to give myself more space
in my closets. Of course there are
vaccines for flu and COVID but none
for the new virus: guns. So every time
a truck backfires, I freeze for a second
even in a heat wave until I’m totally sure
the noise never hit me and can begin
walking again.

Farther Than You Think

When I was around eight or ten
my older brother carried his cigarette
pack rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve.
When he lit a Lucky Strike, I watched
his muscles go up in smoke.

By the time I hit my teens, I stopped
going to church when I saw the grace
I heard in sermons in a movie
with Fred Astaire waltzing across a dance
floor and heaven was Ginger Rogers
in any gown she wore gliding with him
in his arms.

My brother now lives twenty minutes
away in the next town. I thought about
visiting him finally, but I would have had
to hop a flight out of La Guardia to cover
the thousands of miles between us. I almost
did ten years ago then decided not to since
I couldn’t book a window seat.