Hold Me Still
poems by
Gunilla T. Kester
~112 pages, $17 (+ shipping)
Projected Release Date: July/August 2026
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Swedish-born Gunilla Theander Kester is an award-winning poet and the author of If I Were More Like Myself (The Writer’s Den, 2015). Her two poetry chapbooks: Mysteries I-XXIII (2011) and Time of Sand and Teeth (2009) were published by Finishing Line Press. She was co-editor with Gary Earl Ross of The Still Empty Chair: More Writings Inspired by Flight 3407 (2011) and The Empty Chair: Love and Loss in the Wake of Flight 3407 (2010). She has published in various literary magazines including The American Journal of Poetry, Citron Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Paterson Literary Review, and The Potomac Review. She writes a monthly essay for Consequence Forum. She lives near Buffalo, NY, where she teaches classical guitar.
Displacement, war, family conflict, death—these dark realities color many of the pages here, but they aren’t the focus. Rather, they are the space between the bodies of light: the connections we make, the way we persevere, the love we experience, the hope. Though these poems aren’t necessarily contemporary, they are speaking to dynamics, both macro and micro, currently happening. These pieces are timeless and we need them now. ~Matthew Krajniak, Editor, Consequence Forum
Gunilla Kester poetry breathes like memoir. Her voice, unmatched, leaves the reader lifted. Kester’s vulnerability demands we find our own hearts as she takes us to hers. ~Liz Mariani, MFA, Poet
Two Languages
What is it like
she wants to know
to have two languages?
Born with two hands,
air between.
Two homes
to leave.
Fill a heart two times;
empty it twice.
Family Story
Great grandmother died boiling
coffee, grinder’s handle silky,
she fell to the floor without a word
dark snow mixed in white hair.
Grandmother given away at four
to a barren woman, a store full of bread.
My mother in the earth cellar
a mountain of dirty seed-potatoes
her job in the cold hole to remove
the sprouts, those seeing eyes
wishing to grow into light.
A man running through the forest
clanging a big cow bell. The war, he
shouts. The war is over. Kriget är
slut! Fred! Fred! Peace as last! My
mother stares up at him, asking
What war?
The Verbless Immigrant
How did you lose all your verbs?
I ask him and since he cannot tell me,
he begins to gesture, points to my kitchen,
the stove, an old broom, shaking his head.
Ahh! Many verbs you left behind at home;
I try to translate his verbless intent.
Your wife and daughters are sweeping
leftover verbs into a pile they cannot read,
hidden behind a door, next to the stove,
where they are protected and preserved?
He points out the window toward the beach
where waves break, break, break, a restless
gray sentence without end. Ahh! Some verbs
sank on your perilous journey, many more lost
among the murdered and the drowned.
You still hear them scream in clear calls
against the smugglers and the storms.
He lifts my hands to his temples. Ahh!
Other verbs you lost track of in your memory.
Life forced you to abandon the joyful verbs,
the cool, strong, and the needed verbs
until your tongue too became a migrant.
Too Proud to Take Pay
Planted saplings by Saffron Gate. Dry moss
with yellow star flowers needing water.
Little Sister, purple dress flashing, showed me how
to jump over sand-crossing to find Silver Lake.
Cool water soothed my feet. I lingered. The boy,
her brother, went back with me carrying a bucket.
Torches burning in the square. Bodies moving
in the night. I kept my eyes on the ground to get
through. A man grabbed me, held me over the cliff
taunting, until I fought back. No fun anymore!
The boy, my guide, found Three Bridges Alley
and melted into the dark before I could thank him
or give him a coin. Scent of cinnamon, cumin
and cloves. Lamb stew with oranges
and honey-colored tea. I wrote before dawn
what I remembered, lost to the man and the boy
in the crowd. Men can’t follow. Saw my wedding
dress in a shop window, price tag attached.
I was looking for that ancient door stained
to bronze, hanging on blackened hinges.
