Escort me through web scatter,
through the hanging gardens
of dead (both eaten and eaters)
claimed by the cold.
Talk me through the small
bruises on our arms, the almost
fingerprints of ecstatic holding
that darken quicker below zero.
Sing me through the night
service, our tongue-tied attempts
at soliloquy, the white knuckles
gliding across our lips.
Pull me through this reed
hollow where drainage does
its birthing, where chirping things
paint the night in creaking.
John A. Nieves has poems published or forthcoming in journals such as Redivider, Fugue, Minnesota Review, Cortland Review, Adirondack Review, New Mexico Poetry Review, California Quarterly, and Florida Review. He is currently in the Creative Writing Ph.D. Program at the University of Missouri.