Three Poems
by: Nathan Parmerter
Everything that exists is right here; the rain
Everything that exists is right here; the rain on the window and the warm breath on my forehead and her cold hand on my slow chest, held flat over my sternum.
I wonder if my heartbeat in the hollow of her hand is a kind of deliverance for her as it is to me, (warm and kind) feeling the cool skin on her wrist in my hand, a steady pulse under my fingers.
I’m so much bigger than her but she’s curled all the way around me, holding so gently in the cold night and I’ve never felt so small, breathing slow under the warm waning moon, a hand on my chest and another, a soft touch, against my temple.
With both my hands I keep hers close and she holds me like I matter, as though I am deserving of where I lie, over the soft rise and fall of her breathing. I want this moment forever; just this us caught under the moon, kept in the warm, silver light.
She doesn’t seem cold at all, eyes holding the reflection of the sky, her hands warm in mine, her silhouette glittering. She moves, and the stars catch her; shimmering in her hair; dancing across her face. She’s warm, and;
Everything that exists is right here; the cold rain on the window and the moon in her hair and her warm palm, held between my hands over my heartbeat.
She holds me softly; I have never been loved kindly before.
Dorothy Watches the Birds From the Sunroom
My grandmother watches the birds from the sunroom,
folded into her knitted shawl
with summer wrapped around her shoulders.
I am small bones and big eyes
sitting at her feet, with glittery white nails
blowing the polish dry.
Her hands are soft like flowers
as she holds mine, coloring me in like a painting.
I rest my chin on her knee;
I trace circles around the beads of her bracelet.
Outside the window, a small brown bird lands on a feeder.
She points my eyes to him
and lets me take Elvis off the shelf;
wind the music box
one more time.
My grandmother watches the birds from the sunroom.
Her nails are painted pink;
mine haven’t worn polish in a long time.
She smiles at me
in the doorway,
and I imagine she’ll always be there,
folded into her knitted shawl,
while the sun sets around her shoulders
like a blanket.
I kiss my palms and touch her picture on my dresser.
I wave to her through a bird I see
in the grass.
I smile at her
in the sky.
I Can't Hold on to Your Open Hands
There must be something
wrong,
I say.
The sound
is swallowed
by the crickets.
Yellow headlights drive
away--
I’m left on the edge
of the lawn,
where there’s gravel
in the grass
and the driveway is
sprouting weeds.
My hands shake.
The car is gone and
I’m still standing under
the black sky,
and the waning moon
has her eyes closed.
We haven’t spoken
in a while.
I wonder how she’s been.
The gravel is wet under my shoes.
My aunt holds
the screen door open.
When it swings shut
I leave my mother outside
in the october rain.
She’s already
miles away,
and only feels the crying
sky when it patters
on the sun roof
she won’t open again
until the weather is warm.
It will be that long
before I see her
again.
There is something
wrong,
I say.
by: Nathan Parmerter
Everything that exists is right here; the rain
Everything that exists is right here; the rain on the window and the warm breath on my forehead and her cold hand on my slow chest, held flat over my sternum.
I wonder if my heartbeat in the hollow of her hand is a kind of deliverance for her as it is to me, (warm and kind) feeling the cool skin on her wrist in my hand, a steady pulse under my fingers.
I’m so much bigger than her but she’s curled all the way around me, holding so gently in the cold night and I’ve never felt so small, breathing slow under the warm waning moon, a hand on my chest and another, a soft touch, against my temple.
With both my hands I keep hers close and she holds me like I matter, as though I am deserving of where I lie, over the soft rise and fall of her breathing. I want this moment forever; just this us caught under the moon, kept in the warm, silver light.
She doesn’t seem cold at all, eyes holding the reflection of the sky, her hands warm in mine, her silhouette glittering. She moves, and the stars catch her; shimmering in her hair; dancing across her face. She’s warm, and;
Everything that exists is right here; the cold rain on the window and the moon in her hair and her warm palm, held between my hands over my heartbeat.
She holds me softly; I have never been loved kindly before.
Dorothy Watches the Birds From the Sunroom
My grandmother watches the birds from the sunroom,
folded into her knitted shawl
with summer wrapped around her shoulders.
I am small bones and big eyes
sitting at her feet, with glittery white nails
blowing the polish dry.
Her hands are soft like flowers
as she holds mine, coloring me in like a painting.
I rest my chin on her knee;
I trace circles around the beads of her bracelet.
Outside the window, a small brown bird lands on a feeder.
She points my eyes to him
and lets me take Elvis off the shelf;
wind the music box
one more time.
My grandmother watches the birds from the sunroom.
Her nails are painted pink;
mine haven’t worn polish in a long time.
She smiles at me
in the doorway,
and I imagine she’ll always be there,
folded into her knitted shawl,
while the sun sets around her shoulders
like a blanket.
I kiss my palms and touch her picture on my dresser.
I wave to her through a bird I see
in the grass.
I smile at her
in the sky.
I Can't Hold on to Your Open Hands
There must be something
wrong,
I say.
The sound
is swallowed
by the crickets.
Yellow headlights drive
away--
I’m left on the edge
of the lawn,
where there’s gravel
in the grass
and the driveway is
sprouting weeds.
My hands shake.
The car is gone and
I’m still standing under
the black sky,
and the waning moon
has her eyes closed.
We haven’t spoken
in a while.
I wonder how she’s been.
The gravel is wet under my shoes.
My aunt holds
the screen door open.
When it swings shut
I leave my mother outside
in the october rain.
She’s already
miles away,
and only feels the crying
sky when it patters
on the sun roof
she won’t open again
until the weather is warm.
It will be that long
before I see her
again.
There is something
wrong,
I say.