Poetry / Sarah Kersey
:: Good Men ::
for JWH I keep changing. This is forever. The wind applauds my red motorcycle as it breaks 50 mph before it sputters out on the side of the road, gravel gray like gospel. Shattered. Do you need help? Tenderness reduces to copper, calculates what I owe. I’ve climbed into beds, onto faces, on top of waists, now into this white pickup truck. Bikers help each other. When I told the elders I no longer wished to be known as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, you, a good man, the only man I love, cried into the Zoom screen; as if the weather had changed to cool morning mist. You knew everything I’d lost and wet all of it so I wouldn’t crack. Listen to me, you said. I was going to be alone. Kicking off gravel caught in my boots, I got into the truck. Next time, the man said, take off your helmet. It will signal to other bikers that you need help.
From the writer
:: Account ::
Every year since September 2014, I always attempt to write a poem about one of the greatest losses I’ve had in my life. I was attempting that poem last year when it became too difficult to continue the draft. At around that time, I took a poetry workshop called Poetry and Intimacy, which was led by Taneum Bambrick. One of their prompts was to write about an intimate moment between strangers. “Good Men” is the result. It’s based on my actual experience of running out of gas while riding my motorcycle in New Jersey, and a man who stopped on the side of the road to help. I was also stuck on a separate draft of a poem about my disassociation from the Jehovah’s Witnesses in December 2021. All these losses merged in my brain, on and off the page. Yet, this poem embodies a hope I’d never previously imagined for myself, even as I wrestle between my old and new self, my old and new beliefs.
Sarah Kersey is a poet and x‑ray technologist who lives right outside Boston, MA. She has received support from Tin House Workshop. Their debut chapbook Anacrusis is forthcoming with Newfound in 2024. She tweets @sk__poet.