FIVE POEMS by NORA SMITH
A POEM IN WHICH THE “YOU” IS THE SAME “YOU” OF “IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY” BY SHERYL CROW
So if it is for you, it is for Sheryl herself.
I find when you look closely enough
most love stories turn autobiography.
Though what I love about you
I cannot see in me:
Your easy charm, always a laugh.
Turning your Grammys into earrings.
The way your wins must jingle
in your ear as a reminder.
Sometimes I think I will die
with the heartbreak you made me.
In an interview 10 months before I was born
you say, I want to thank my producer,
me. And I wonder, In what world are you
not the kind of girl one takes home.
Triple platinum smile. Sheryl. Herself.
MY IMPROV TEACHER TELLS ME: SOMETIMES THE EASIEST CHOICE IS TO MAKE THINGS WORSE
You. zippo in your pocket.
You. zippy. You. zipper.
You. closing the gap.
You. in clothes from the Gap.
You. classic. You. classique.
You. classiquecal.
You. piano. You. pianissimo.
You. pianississippi.
You. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
You. T-O-S-S-I-N-G. (& turning.)
You. in sleepiocorktus.
You. glowing with knowing.
You. in translumenomniscience.
You. in nonsense.
&&I. want it all the same.
ODE TO TRIDENT
Gnawed Green Glob
Flung From The Driver’s Side
Still Fragrant — What A Shame
To Hit The Curb When You
Still Have Your Punch!
That Chewed Up
Piece Of Polymer
With Still Enough
Spearmint To Kill
A Fully Grown Squirrel
The Ideal Way To Chew Gum
Is To Split It Into Two Halves
And Then Put One Piece
In Each Cheek And Watch
Your Teeth Never Touch Again
Find It With Your Hands
Pull Them Away
From Under The Desk
From Under The Church Pew
From Under The Bus Seat
From Under Your Own Foot
And Know Something Isn’t Right
I Shouldn’t Be Stuck Here
I Shouldn’t Be Feeling Resistance
It Shouldn’t Be Sticky And I
Shouldn’t Be Touching It
Dear Little Trident Stick
I Find Your Metallic Clothes
Strewn All Over My Apartment
Like A Lover, Thank You
For Keeping My Mouth Busy
I Take You Out To Sing
I Mount You On The Edge
Of A Bottle Of Coke
For Safe-Keeping
When The Music Is Over
I Stick You Back In My Maw
It’s Hard Work At First
Before It’s Good As New
AT UNCLE KEN’S FUNERAL, ELIZABETH AND I BEGIN PLANNING OUR OWN
It starts while we’re looking at photos of him, enough to fill the three poster boards on display. Elizabeth says There aren’t enough pictures of me to fill one board. Aunt Sharon chimes in to say I don’t even want a funeral. Aunt Cindy agrees I want to be cremated and you can all have a big party a month later. Now Angela has pulled herself away from another griever. She has thoughts, namely That’s not fair. You’re robbing people of the chance to gather and say goodbye. Cindy says You can still do that. It just doesn’t make sense to do all this without a body. I nod at her to signal my understanding, as I agree it is one of many things that will just not make sense to do without a body, but Angela simply won’t have it. You just want everyone to mourn for a full month. We laugh. Uncle Ken’s acquaintances and nurses, in the condolences line now, glare at us because it is the very worst thing to laugh when a dead body is in the room. I am anchored to the memory of the last time I hugged him—a midnight nearing Christmas, we shared a shot glass trading out butterscotch and eggnog liquor. He was wearing a onesie. Here, a family at once feels seasonal and funeral. I almost ask over the bickering Have you ever heard of a sky burial? They lay you in a field and vultures come to eat your body. They tear it to shreds. You never make it to ashes. I’m not sure it’s perfect retribution, but it’s something close. But now Elizabeth has specified. She does not want a poster board, first of all. You can all float me on the Allegheny River. Everyone can have a hand in lighting the pyre. Get some anger out. That’s what we all need. Not a mass, not a visitation—just me, the water, and some fire.
THE ARCHER
an archer high on a hill
fingers pinched around a needle
he sends it flying barely visible
through that sparrow eye
are you kidding me right now
why do birds keep flying through my poems
you aren't safe here birds
helloo, coo-cooo you are always being mauled
feathers ripped out by another creature
today you disrupted the path of this needle
thin arrow shot so carefully from that quiver
in the first couplet when it was destined
to land in the cap of a mushroom
sending spores flying outward
a great metaphor for life and death
well nevermind it hardly matters now
Nora Smith (they/them) is an editor living in Pittsburgh. They have poems in No Contact and Door Is A Jar. Their other shitty activities include improv, making zines, crying at house shows, and long runs.