Tiana Reid: Nightnursing
Under I am letting go
of nighttime: soothing sweat
dismissed as chlorine:
in this place:
majestic noun pouring
over the pool.
I hear no one: no
little rattles: no cued-up laughter:
no acuteness: no victories:
Something I don’t need flourishes here:
and in not needing: I become fleshy:
a ballooned god, a little boy who sees
dark as it should be: warm: cocoon: everylight.
150 steps away: a
restaurant with cloth napkins and candles.
The glow can get over on me,
its cradled network of all-hail-the-queen, a low
grade insomnia, tongue-jarred, forever and ever
behind the times new roman: a social lifer
upward-spiraling to nowhere.
Some men need extra lessons
up up up the stairs, she walks past
the janitor flirting, the student interrupted by
the old man with the lion sneeze,
and the tiny room with the fast printer
and the quiet woman ready to unite the next
generation of lesbians and
the admin lady, with her stringy hair, inspecting papers,
the person with a post-it parade on their wall.
suddenly people were all around,
their plants hugging the window ledge,
their cardigans hanging over desk chairs,
making anoretic shrines, unlearning and
relearning who they were
Reigns. Lawlessness pitters around a green:
It involves a merry-go-round.
The things we do to survive —
One: sip a paper-bagged rocket out of a straw
On the afterwork subway commute.
Two: leave his hands unmoisturized
To remind him
Of his hard work.
Three is more difficult with its
Haze filling all around,
Quivering parallels and all.
Three makes a harsh sound, not airy
Like One, or counterpoised like Two.
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