Longhand

        John A. Nieves

 

 

 

I dressed my hands

for a night of dancing, slick

celebration, firelight. They opened,

decked for beckoning,

but met: I fail a little

every time I see you.

But met some shiny non-tear

in the corner of your eye. The buckle-weight,

the years, ribbons, could do little

to support it. Rupture slipped quietly

into the seams, gave our footprints

a ticker tape parade. Why are exits

always one-way? Where do the doors lead

at the end of the hall? My hands, naked

now, press gently together, my intimate

mourning. We march slowly as they worry

about which will push the passage open,

which will cover my eyes. I hear you leave

through an air vent. I know goodbye

will never catch you now, still

one hand grasps as if at a passing

dandelion seed and one hand waves,

its tiny soliloquy performed

after even the sound of the audience

slid past its last tinny echo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perpetual Inventory (Things I Have Learned)

 

 

 

How once a month the moon forgets itself,

becomes part of the sky.

 

How the world viewed from under water

is less distinct, but still the world.

 

How passion becomes sweat,

then dries into salt.

 

How thunder and lightning are two parts

of the same phenomenon, but there’s no word for the whole.

 

How everyone eventually loses

the fight against sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perpetual Inventory (Things I Must Learn)

 

How the moon is not

spinning.

 

How I am not

the moon.

 

How to stand

is to be on top of something.

 

How the top of something is

always in the middle of everything.

 

How you sometimes say

my name in your sleep.