Three Poems: Brianna Nelson
waxing
what is the point of this waning belly to see the sun pass noon and save my thoughts from muddling
for a homemade cocktail stuckness is part of the business we’ve entertained with too many free car rides accepted
despite the mercy of my mother’s warnings next time say no when i’m not sure if i want to say yes listen when reminded
i’m from there, even though now i am here
& next time it might be better to sit beside passengers with greater aptitudes for tangibility, a quality for which my feet have been searching every plastered poster
smiles to make me smile back & i’m ashamed because if i back up enough i can’t see the moving parts
torrid
i can stare at blood tire my eyes for hours
two cloudy bags, swelling with antibodies begging to take a walk
maybe into the ocean, washing up down the coast polished and ready for collection, or equally likely,
cutting up the guts of palmy, shimmering fish who did not know better than to swallow
i could accrue some simulation to find out the body honors what is real
on the other hand, the mind, infinitely trickable if i only let it sleep
borrowing
inhaling, i lose one dailiness to another dailiness, a perpetuation absent of must
what’s real is what i smell, not what i don’t feel
i did not have a father who tapped trees, i think often about what my hair collects
throughout the day—the sound of a suitcase zipper rattling across the platform
what again is the light at the back of that darkness
the forgotten weight of borrowing is a meaning lost to ubiquity, ubiquity to
expectation, i never praised breathing when breathing was new
time to open the coffers of sunset time to light a candle, to silence the kettle time to count a lack of sheep time to drop a line, to tithe the devil
holding my hand through itchy, sequined winters, which is different than saying life is full of compromises
***
Brianna Nelson is a writer and editor living in Oakland, California. More of her words can be found at brianna-nelson.com.
