Three Poems by Nate Reed

Ties

Last night

I tied the ocean

to your knees,

as birds, nestled

in the jutting A’s

of the Ramada sign,

watched. The sound

of waves crushing

shells into sand

(Your hips

are Conches).

A lick of salt.

Ankles draped in green,

seaweed tugging--

dragging us back down

to the water.

***

Circle

piece together hallucinatory notions of togetherness, something along the lines of beach-speak, towel dried kisses, etc. i am willing to watch you age. but there is nothing left in the sky to wonder about, everything named, everything known. the only thing for curiosity to attack is what is going to happen. i've been naming puzzles after shirts hanging in my closet, an attempt to forget, an attempt to replace memories with something more concrete: held together pictures and places. there are only a few moments where breathing is the wrong thing to do. young hearts spark fire. did you know there are bugs that live in our eyelashes? circles are the only complete thing you can know. everything else has a place to fracture. understand then, this is the most romantic thing that can be said: i will be your circle. there were question marks hidden somewhere, but i destroyed them with incomplete sentences, left the structure hanging, wondering if there was a place to fall, a cliff to be renamed, a railroad to conquer. underneath these overpasses, i can hear cars rumble by like moving means there is a place to go, but i'm too busy staring at weeds in cracks to know where i should be going. we're too drunk to feel it. i was waiting for the mixed CD to make itself. i don't wanna worry about dying; i just wanna worry about sunshine girls. there might be a million fucking words for this, but i would prefer just one: yes. every album i have is just a way to remember somebody else. every memory i have is attacking back. every song could be sung, but the voices are slipping out windows, sliding into the trees bowing from the thunderstorm about to hit. i know because i asked them. you are beautiful. this is a fact, just like the Sears Tower is tall is fact, or how PNC Park is a wonderful baseball stadium or how one of the great tragedies of growing up is forgetting how great root beer floats are in summer. i don't remember the quiet until it sneaks up on me, stops me, cradles my head in its hands and tells me to sleep. if every word i wrote meant something, i would be left empty. there are no challenges that headphones can't cure. i'd start smoking if it didn't cost money. no, that's a lie. i get asked if i'm a smoker all the time, though. apparently i give off the smoker vibe. i was told once when i asked a girl who assumed this that i just seem like the type of dude who wouldn't care enough not to. i'm not sure what that means. holy music. sink into me. i could watch ceiling fans until i go blind. summer witness: it is here, in this warmth, where i could disappear into a puddle, wait for your soothing hand in my hair, purr my love, whisper to you, "this quiet is what i have to give to you."

***

Disassembling Directive

Walk up the steps

to your attic.

Pass the old T.V. teetering

on a crushed box

of baby clothes, pass

unsorted photos of birthdays

and a grandmother’s funeral

you were too young

to remember. Linger

over the box holding

a wedding dress. The neckline

frayed. The stolen fabric

a home for the mice

in the walls. Sit in your grandfather’s

recliner. Watch the dust rise.

It still smells of Old Spice

and sawdust from when he’d

sit in the garage Saturdays,

carve figures of old miners

and their donkeys, a wooden chain

from a single block, or

a basket from a walnut shell.

Look behind the box of Anne Murray

and Rod McKuen records.
Find the plastic train,
the size of a half dollar.

Roll it between your fingers:
the purple wheels, green engine,
red bell, purple smoke stack,

and blue cabin. Pull
the red knob in front.
The engine, bell, and smokestack

come loose. Push
the bottom latch of the cabin
through the yellow base.

The wheels fall away.
Hold the pieces in your palm.
Turn your hand over.

Watch them scatter.

***

Nate Reed is currently living in Greensburg, Pa. He works as a free-lance wrter for various websites. He earned a B.A. in English, concentration in Creative Writing from Clarion University, with a minor in Philosophy.