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