Poetry — January 9, 2012 11:49 — 1 Comment


(Or: Timothy Tries to Give Me His Number While the Lady He Came with Grows Impatient)

“Seriously, Timothy, you are breaking my heart,”
says the dolled up girl in the parking lot.
You like blondes, and she’s a good start –
voluptuous and sad, thankfully not

unaccustomed to life’s disappointments.
It’s clear to everyone that you’re a good dancer,
or, in other words, a boy who’ll make rent –
borrowing, when you need it, someone else’s answer.

Meanwhile, Timothy, I’m falling through the sky,
lonelier than ever.  Nice to meet you.  The gun’s under
my pillow, burning colder by the hour.  Why dance, why
begin anything, when what we take for first kiss wonder

is the first quake of the ending beneath our feet.  The girl
is in the car, waiting.  Get in, drive faster.


Sierra Nelson is co-founder of The Typing Explosion and Vis-à-Vis Society, president of Seattle's Cephalopod Appreciation Society, a MacDowell fellow, and has poems in Crazyhorse, Poetry Northwest, Thermos, Fairy Tale Review, and Forklift Ohio. Her lyrical choose-your-own-adventure chapbook with artist Loren Erdrich is forthcoming from Rose Metal Press.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney