newer poem.

 Wants

I want to write poems all day—

pin down pieces of tissue paper
and revisit mason jars of tears.
I want to bury my feet
in fertile earth until my toes
take root, and when we finally erode away
I never want to forget
the terrible break—joints stretch and pop,
bone pulls away from ribbons of sinew,

ache, crunch, wet

crack of watermelon

breaking open,

and a vein of red juice

darkens the dirt.

I want to collect rocks and sips
of water from sprinklers,
pigeon feathers and heads down
pennies—rootless things like
fake flowers in the dumpster behind
the cemetery and fireflies

blinking inside my cupped hands,

your fingers tracing my palms.

Leaves form feet and shuffle along
the sidewalk while I wait
for a person to appear—

someone I’ve been anticipating
without knowing

why or what compels me

to offer my heart

to cracks in the pavement and weeds.

I want to write poems,
smoke green and loose myself
in a patch of yellow.

I want to
worry your left earlobe
into a pearl, lick the freckles from
behind your knees, trace a hint
across your back— the
path to another coast.
I want anyone
in bed with me— anyone
willing to hold my heart for the night,
some warm cocoon for a girl
never full or convinced

I can’t help falling in love
with landscape paintings of
unfinished trees, and a thunderstorm
of desire.  

-Claire Nelson 

older poems

Apology To The One I Won't Call Back

You are the only one I ever told
about the house in the valley, the mountains.
I couldn’t stop myself when you
brushed your hand through my hair,
but never tried to touch my lips.
When you asked where I saw myself,
I knew you didn’t mean here –

this small cave with three doors and one brown wall,
side by side with a person I never knew.
I told you: In the summer it rains every afternoon,
the clouds roll in like a yawn to fill every crag.
There is a hammock, a screen door
and no neighbors for miles.

I could feel it with each word,

the damp-warm air like a breath

on the back of my neck,

the shiver it sends down my spine.

I know it is you standing behind me.

I’ve never liked that feeling.

I feel raw after I’ve been too truthful,
the way my knuckles crack and bleed in winter,

the ache a panicked pulse, hot and sharp.
I can’t bear the way I look in your eyes.
What is the reality of secrets? Now you live there too,
and I can’t go back,

can’t call you back.
I’m somewhere else now,
the mouth of the river opens onto the ocean

and I dive until everything is hidden
and there are only

glowing fish to light my path. 

The Beach At Night


I can’t look at waves

without thinking of their absence—

the ocean without a pulse,

and what that would mean for us,

what it would mean for the moon.


Tonight if I wanted to
I could pull the moon from the sky

and watch it drip between my fingers

like a smooth orb of butter.

Golden tendrils shimmer on the black

surface of the water, swaying like a hand

waving goodbye.

Instead, I study your face

until it is lost under a passing cloud.
I wonder if we will be the same

when you return, or if the craters of your eyes

will cradle milky shadows. 

On the drive back I roll the windows down,

and lick salt from the corners

of my mouth.
Waves swell and fall in harmony
with the asphalt tire crunch
of miles melting away.
I know we will never be the same.
Even the most dull moments
are unique.
The waves are already gone. 

-Claire Nelson

 

round two

oh hey, I'm trying again. I promise this time.

Super big moon

Want it.

Finals: Finished
Interview:Finished
St. Patrick's Day: PARTICIPATED

Tomorrow Night: Mega Moon or Super Moon or Super Big Moon all of which we are going to the beach to see.
And then, Seattle.
andthenclasses.

This means I will be able to visit this place at random.

Things I Don't Know

I.

When I was a child

I threw myself down

a flight of stairs,
and grasped at the
invisible hands
of gravity. 

II.
In my apartment

I stood in a winter coat,
and laughed when no one

was there,
bitter eels
of winter chill
electrifying my feet.

III.
 I wrote my lover

a letter and promised him

all of my loose change
if he would forgive me

for what

I don’t know.
I taped the letter to his door,

and watched it for a day.
then took it back

without understanding why. 

-Claire Nelson

oh man is a giddy thing.

Reason to love Savannah

You turn around a rainy day better than anyone I know.

poem that I love.

The Song by Rilke

How shall I hold my soul that it
does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it over you to other things?
If it would only sink below
into the dark like some lost thing
or slumber in some quiet place
which did not echo your heart's beat.
But all that ever touched us- you and me-
touched us together
like a bow
that from two strings could draw one voice.
On what instrument were we strung?
And to what player did we sing
our interrupted song?

Who We Love

When David died
I was with Tyler,
but I was supposed to be with Anna
because Tyler was a drop-out,
drug addict, the only boy
I’d ever kissed,
and I loved him enough to lie,

and he loved me enough

to justify it.

A year before David died
and Tyler dumped me at prom, 
it was summer in South Georgia—
asphalt rippled, the mirage talked,
it never rained.
It was my job to water David’s plants
while he was

out of town,


but Tyler and I were unbearably young, 

driven mad by lust and sun.

We heard
his cool guest bedroom

call to us, urgent lovers, all hands and need,
palms that know this body could be gone
at any moment,
fingertips that groped for memory.


When David died,
I needed him
to be alive so I could tell him

I didn’t water the plants that day.
I was sorry—so sorry.
Now I think of them—

wilted, alone under the hot sun
and I want to hear his voice,
I want him to say, it’s ok
we don’t choose
who we love. 

-Claire Nelson

Kazoo Serenade

The last nice thing you said to me

was “Your breath smells
like vodka,”

as I hummed at you

through a kazoo.
It was an

original composition;

maybe not

technically perfect—

I wasn’t concerned

with mechanics.
Who needs rules

when there are kazoos in the world?

I did an accompanying jig

on a cracked patch

of sidewalk.

Why is cement

always damp
on summer nights? It made such a

satisfying smack

against my bare-feet,

cool and wet,

like the familiar kiss

of a person I rarely see.

I could have danced circles around you

all night

until we were both too dizzy to know

melody from moment,

beauty from spit and plastic.

Instead, I unbuttoned the pocket

on your shirt, and slipped the kazoo inside.

I don’t need retrospect

to tell me

you don’t deserve

a kazoo serenade. Oh I wish

it was about deserve

and not desire.

Observations From The Window: Part I

Three times a day girl walks husky.
Grocery cart wheels and asphalt.
Parade of fat pugs.
Horn. Moment of suspension. Metal meets screeching metal.
School bus.
Skateboard.
Bike.
Later, an argument.
Unrelated sirens.