Six Poems
by Joe Nasta
when you’re on the sidewalk outside the party
They made it beautiful to keep you out.
They made joyful noises so you would hear.
They came thiiiiis close. Good thing you don’t
give a fuck! We found the dry spot and sat down.
You laid down our blanket and I unpacked our lunch
of bologna sandwiches, potato salad, and an apricot:
You always loved your mayonnaise and the stone
in your throat. I promise they want you here, too.
american cheese
This time we meet mid-afternoon on
the dock, the dead end of Madison Street.
As always I find you unpeeling
the crusts from your sandwiches,
the socks from your feet dangled
into the lake, & the skin of your favorite
fruit. Yes, isn’t the sour of almost ready
a delight? Again we almost knew each other.
You look up with a stringy wedge
in your mouth, trying to remember
the name of my childhood best friend.
yacht party
I daydreamed you on my sailing trip.
In Filucy Bay we anchored, grilled
salmon and drank Rosé out of mugs.
In my boxers I pretended to be James Bond.
Your shaving mirror, beautiful. The water
was still and only one other boat was around
with a very sour man and his beautiful wife.
At low tide our longer chains brought us together.
Fennel. You always smelled like it. The trees
were so green. The flecks in your eyes. The sour
man, “You are getting too close…” The sunset
was incredible in an almost completely remote
place. My crewmate got so tired of hearing your name.
night cheese
I made grilled cheese at 3 am.
There were pickles but
I couldn’t open the jar.
Once, he made jam
sandwiches. I never
liked a midnight snack until
he screwed off the lid, spoonfed
me raspberry preserves.
I wasn’t sleeping. I became the worst
version of myself. We finished the jam.
I began to crave brine.
The worst part must be over.
I deleted his number.
He won’t call me. I’m not friends
with any of his friends.
Anything now would be starting
again. Do I want to try it?
Don’t blink for yes. Maybe soup.
The drawer. The can opener.
A pink bowl I borrowed but never
gave back. The smoke alarm beeps.
All of this feeling. I forgot butter so
my grilled cheese was charred black
but I ate it anyway. It tasted so bad.
raisins
Where are you today?
Raisins cupped in my palm.
How quickly you became
Half-memory, not so sour.
No, I can’t be erased from hospital
Waiting rooms with wheelchairs,
Raisinettes, the other edge of hope.
I pop the sun-dried fruit into my mouth.
Someone in the background cheers on my
Simon and Garfunkel record, live in Central Park.
It's too easy to peel back the skin, say something
That transforms into another person's poem.
I can barely remember the sweet parts
But I was there when my brothers were born.
It's tough to chew but I am not ashamed
Of anything we yelled to each other.
If I knew my brothers now I'd tell
Them to speak. Although words
Sometimes turn over time
Against Speaker, poems
Become all
We have
Left.
Oh
Brother,
Do
You
Have
Power?
Yes
You
Have
Power.
So use it.
*Originally self-published on Vocal Media https://vocal.media/poets/raisins
plums
We’ve reached the pit. I’ve always wanted
your bare knuckles against me, leaving
marks. Hold me accountable!
You were probably saving me
something, or I imagined
your delight when you tasted,
spit. Forgive me, prince.
You were so sweet
and I was so cold.
I won’t say I love you.
My bruised neck purple yellows,
dried lavender and yarrow.
More thin-skinned than I remember
bursting sweet. You know
everybody loves you.
Everybody loves you.
*Originally self-published on Vocal Media https://vocal.media/poets/plums
BIO: Joe Nasta is vibing in Seattle. He has whispered four books of poems and one fiction collection into the world. Ze is an associate editor at Hobart. @roflcoptermcgee