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.

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