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.