Spring 2020 Vision

By Amee Nassrene Broumand

Today is not a day

but a miasma of uncertainty,

of suspended life—

this cherry blossom evening

is undead, opaque, a creature

of grey mist. Norooz is now

Halloween, each petal trembling

before the fall.

We bottle our tomorrows

and stopper them with hope.

Time piles in my lap. So far I’ve found

that my afternoon bathtub collects sunlight:

the water throws the dancing ghosts of July

over my skin; the hours pass

and I’m mummified, aging

into sad leather that’s perfect

for a handbag

or a pair of new boots.

I sip jasmine tea to inhale the coming summer,

but the flavor slips into a future

I can no longer pretend to fathom.

Mothballs roll forth, tracing eons of dust

across my tongue—

in another life

I gather apples,

cutting past bone

into the star.

Night falls on the deserted church across the street.

It seems far away, but I remember lingering there,

thinking nothing of my unquiet lungs.

Backlit against a skyful of iolite, the old spire

rises into darkness. We await the ringing.


Amee Nassrene Broumand is an asthmatic Iranian-American writer from the Pacific Northwest. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared in numerous journals including Glass: A Journal of Poetry (Poets Resist), Rust + Moth, Barren Magazine, Sundog Lit, and Empty Mirror. Find her on Twitter @AmeeBroumand.

This poem is a part of the DISTANCED project.

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