Kimberly BMW Wade


It is not her skin
-Smooth, youthful-
That offends me.
I would run distracted fingers
For hours along
The lobe of her ear,
Slope of her neck,
Curve of her shoulder
If only the path were unimpeded…

The strand of silver beads
Her mother gave her.
Light hits them like a parade of
Cockroaches marching single file
Crawling over her collarbones
Grinding underfoot
Skin most fine, most fair.
Silver beads
From her mother, no longer living.
How she clings to them.
How they cling to her.
I would release her
From those silver beads
From the rough feeling
Of rot and rust.
Let her run bare skinned
Under my fingertips
In the garden of roses
Lining her yellow sundress.

All politeness, she
Pours my afternoon tea.
The matching bracelet
Chatters like
Teeth twitching in
A cadaver.
No. No more tea. I cannot drink it.
Please, instead,
Tell me how to love a woman
Who wears silver beads.




Kimberly BMW Wade lives in Ohio with her husband and enjoys a state of being between Legend and Hijinks, her two cats. She has published as a poet, illustrator, and obituary writer. Her poetry spans most genres and topics. It ranges between archaic forms to modern beat, free verse or prose. Most recently, Kimberly has been published in the Eye to the Telescope literary magazine, Tequila Kraken: An AWFUL Publication, and received honorable mention for the 2019 SFPA Contest.