Two Poems


Squirrel Dance

When I look out your window,
from your bed,
in this crisp,
kind of sleepy neighborhood,
I can see two squirrels,
a red porch,
detritus on your windowsill.

We drunkenly fucked
on the plush couch in
your vacant office.

It was probably pretty gross,
lazily smashing our bodies together,
happening, to be sure,
but still not totally palpable.

When I wake in the morning,
you are warm and solid and breathing
heavily, your skin is so pale
and freckled,
the skin under your stubble
is a little dry and very human.



Let’s call it “This Eggshell”

the world
had disappointed me
with its bitter incense.

I sat at the restaurant bar
by myself,
with my hair down and
a borrowed moth-y scarf.
I told the bartender
that being a human is confusing and
bewilders me.

He is sweet,
that bartender,
with his slicked-back hair
and the slice of space
between his front teeth.

I am happy
that the rain is falling so hard
on the parking lot outside my window.

I want to stick me head
out farther and farther,
until I am all neck
and my tongue
can taste the sweetened pavement.


Remy Nelson is a recovering copywriter and hostess at a fancy seafood restaurant in Seattle.