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Three
Poems by
Amy
Nawrocki
Loving
the Maybes
When
lips are lonely for hydration and the landscape has just
passed by, when
the body consents to yield its search for
a hand-out, and you can only lean against
the bark of a tree, but not the tree itself, close
your eyes and wait for hues of green to
soak your gaze. Wait as shades of indigo coax
you out of hypnosis, then endeavor to spin in
the earth’s lonely trajectory without wings and
fall headfirst into the mango light of sunrise. Embrace
the possibility that a boomerang returns not
because it knows its aim, but because it
loves the accident of color.
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Embargo
Thinking
avant-garde
rather
than criminal, we
snickered to each other when we slid nine
dollars Canadian across the counter for
the Cohiba,
packed
Havana leaves away, and
sealed our fate as smugglers.
It
is a muggy July evening when at last we
take it out of the makeshift humidor in
the coffee table, clumsily knife off the
end and sit patio-side for the smoke. As
the sky shimmies and dark cherry embers roast
at the end of the wrapped cylinder, my
lungs fill. You blow silver rings and
we sip young scotch, yet with each inhalation
we journey closer to wiry hands folding
leaves intoxicated by peat and moss, earth-rich
men rolling a hundred at a time. Loving
the flavor and richness, we become defectors
from history and recognize there
is more honesty in a Cuban cigar than
in all our charred and amateur rituals.
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Caesura
After
watching the logs crack and char, heat
stretching to my bare shins, and
daylight fading to its perforation, the
riverside tent closes us in for
a sleepless night. A nearby campsite chatters
into the late evening, and we beg the
shades for sleep that arrives only with
shackles. The July air is damp, and
I shiver beneath skimpy layers, a
mistake the cold night reminds me to
pay. With every sigh my waking self catches
the beginning of rest, only to throw it
back to the dampness. When the edge of
morning hacks in, we lumber up and
slug the short way to the foul outhouse,
then return to the dew-wrapped tent. Grumpy,
cold, I fold myself into you, my
head finding the slope of your chest; into
the crux of sleep we fall together, a
shared pleasure we had never known. We
turn as one into the shell of a spoon, your
arms robed around me, and
in this posture, we fight the tremors of
the long night and doze, saving
bones from a frigid lair, saving
the next day from our sure exhaustion.
We flame into the now.
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