Amber Nelson

 

 

 

Swarm

 

The sound, the rush
of hot air, swarms the entry.

Just as the wings buzz and flicker
among the swarming rooms.

We wash out into the streets,
a swarm of nerves.

Too many people swarm the sidewalks.
We stand shoulder to shoulder.

How to prevent so many swarms
of bees from stinging so many inches of skin.

How to run, like swarms of cattle
through the hills into safety.

That flush of skin that swarms
our cheeks, the endorphins in our cells.

When our skin warms, our bodies
swarm against each other.

The skin, swarming.
The slipping of swarm into sound.

 

 

Fork

 

Of four tines, arced to the rapture.
They are designed for introduction
into. Like entry points for sustenance
and mouths, which are always moving.

We speak so much the words are dust.

Or so little we look for meaning between tines
and teeth, and find only spinach.

Because meaning emerges archeologically.
The arc of travel, of digging, resulting in light.

 

 

 

Apology

 

To defend like warriors with words for swords.
This is my self-exceeding language stabbing through you.
And that's ok. The world is a prism for refracted ideas.
The idea that blue could actually be blue, or not blue.
See the sky, it is not blue, but red and warm like blood.
You are emerging through your skin, protruding from your mouth.
I am a warrior and not sorry, but fighting.

 

 

 

Insult Poem

 

Once, your mom
told me you as baby.

You as baby meant temper
and red cheeks. You as baby
would jerk away from everyone,
except your mom. Calm when

you sucked on the nipple.

I imagine that you behaved
the way you do now. How you bite me,
softly, lips brushing skin. How you suck
a little bit until I squirm beneath you.
So that I can't wait to
fuck you.