Three Poems by John A. Nieves

One Night, Just before Rain

I remember the small distances, the way we would hold them
like a cricket in our hands, how the darkness would turn
that distance into a throbbing song, something like the blood
rushing through our ears from too much strain. I can still
taste the cold seeping under the door downstairs, how the stars
gathered like tin on the back of our tongues. Listen. I know
the years are torn rags stretched between us, eaten
by the sea. I am well aware how quickly intimacy becomes

anonymity in the icy wash of time. Listen. The leaves
are shushing our thoughts with their rustling susurrus, begging
us to fall like them and let go the work done, the inches
grown. In this night though, there are no colors to change to. There

is no moon to see us turn our backs on the sun, so if we open
slowly, if we uncup our hands, what will jump? What will stay?

Why We Cannot Measure Destination

……………………I learned today that this pen
I write with is not a thing, but an event, that I
…………too am only a series of events I keep
……………………………….freshly misunderstanding as one
……………………me. By extension, this changes the phrase
we all die eventually to something perpetually
……………………………….true instead of punctually true. This means
…………the kiss we shared once under a sunshower
……………………………….on the Great Plains is only an imprint
neither one of now us ever lived—but I can
…………taste it still. Is this how instinct works across
……………………generations? Does the migrating bird long
……………………for the scent of a place it has, itself, never been?
Does the sweat we left on sheets mean less
……………………………….because it was never our sweat and those sheets
…………are not those sheets? Perhaps this is an argument
for immortality as I have stopped being me
……………………many times while writing this only to instantly
……………………………….convince myself the same hand finished a word
…………it started. If we are only moments and moments
…………are translatable, like mating in the Sargasso
……………………to an elver or this poem to you or to me two
hours from now, can we not always be found?
……………………………….Are we not still sitting under a snow-shivered
……………………………….magnolia and a thousand miles apart? I leave
……………………each you and each me and each everyone this
…………little scribbling to say: we will find our way
back here for the first time, I promise.

We Two

Because these words are
……………………vaccine against distance, here
…………is the soft skin on the back of my hand
……………………finding the round
……………………………….of your shoulder. It is okay
…………to turn. The air rings with breath
that slips between words
……………………and wants. A citrus smile finds
……………………………….the curve of your lips. It is
…………night, but day-hot. These vowels
vibrate in your throat and we have
……………………merged now: the scent
……………………………….and the sounds, the lines
in your mouth. I write
……………………………….this to say
……………………all interval is myth. We are
…………………………………………inside each other’s
eyes. We are inside. Everything you are
…………feeling, you are
……………………feeling. This
……………………………….is not figurative. I’m here.

John A. Nieves’ poems appear in journals such as: Crazyhorse, Southern Review, Copper Nickel, North American Review  and Poet Lore. His first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Judges Prize. He’s an Associate Professor at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry.