we haven’t been able to be picky
with what we put in these bodies.
I drowned once. Lived through twice.
Been back to see the dogwoods just
in time for them to bloom. My mother’s
peonies wilted on the kitchen table,
desk, courtroom stand. We’ve been picked
over when there wasn’t a thing left to be picked
from beneath our eyelids, and yet we still looked.
Outside the street is busy with people.
We’re busy too. Always have been.
They’ve been making us recall the names
we’ve so heavily choked down. I drowned
once. I’ve lived through the water twice.
I’ll do it again if you give me the chance.
Maybe I’ll snap at it, this thing you’ve named
Nick Soluri is a poet and playwright from North Carolina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Misfit Magazine, Albany Poets, Poetry South, and the anthology Without a Doubt: Poems Illuminating Faith (NYQ Books, 2022). He’s an MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College and lives in New York City. He tweets @nerkcelery.
Photography by: Fallon Michael