The Nerve Sequence

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The Nerve Sequence by Amy Newman      


This is the heart’s wish, the lone

friend of the heart,

who doesn’t spread its secrets,

but the twin red beats are pushed

with dark blood. Who thought of the kiss,

this bend of flesh and the letter it writes

against the hair, or into night,

the evening’s blue shoulder?

Tonight you watch as I become a myth:

diminishing the clothes against my skin,

their slow descent against the gypsy whim of body.

The reds of flesh and lip and tongue,

back of the throat, and parts of speech,

parts of the world we love in whispers

of this private, lurid, throaty prayer.

Within what wide brace of strength

comes all this scent and wonder,

all these fat demands it makes

against my body’s little, starry form.

Inside I am all constellation,

a transparent toy or a lantern of curve

and blaze, a work of fiction. But isn’t that

the trouble with desire? It rides into town

when it wishes, and kicks up the dirt,

makes the womenfolk scream. Darling,

the rain, the blue vivid night. My curve

of words, my spread of leg.

Get your saddle on.



Amy Newman and Nerve.com   



Easy to take, this gray that travels

with a vague wet heart. It gestures

the room, bothers the pale cool

random of the sheets. Out the window

all the trees begin the blossom, sense the shape

an outstretched limb desires. Who will notice

this ritual of practical want, this terrestrial

symmetry? We move as deliberate

as the earth’s acquiescence, its sleepy whir,

both slow and hard turning

into this sweet approaching storm.

All the prolonged sense until the wet.

Finding the colors of grass and hay

under skin. The cool cliché

of all this water, its attendant beauty,

while the world decides itself in shapes,

the inside spun of something dark

and sullen. In rain, the way the torso

knows to turn into the curves of wish

and all the gestures of circumnavigation

will make the room atop the earth adhere

like a tiny centrifuge. Outside,

the crickets sing their bodies, amazed

at their legs as tongues: such idea, such dreaming.





Amy Newman and Nerve.com   



I dream of this: a screen door, and

outside it, some hard thought, the threat

of what I want: male width and span

and neck and hands. Will you

describe the column of the world into a story,

and give me all that story, handsome flesh,

one muscled chapter at a time?

My every leaf of body spread

as if the world a table and you

prepared to eat: Who comes

to me in this four a.m. shade of beast?

I am undone for sleep, all hips and hollows,

hungers, my little pinks, swift flesh, and

while I imagine the screen swung wide

to this heart’s ambition, while I imagine

his welcoming hurt and all bets off —

how to accomplish the body’s hard want?

The long hooks of the flesh, its blossoms,

its bad girl voice, all loyal to this vagrant stranger,

and mom said not to speak to him, but oh —




Amy Newman and Nerve.com   



There, you have found it,

the heart’s vague push set to music

thin as a christening bell, wide

as a body of water, Dear Flesh, I just wrote

to say will you touch me in that same

decisive way, the knowledge

rude and yet.
It is the longest window

filled with clear glass, and as it pulls

a thin blank shade,

it gleams and this long leg lifts,

my darling, see the stretch as muscle

begs for your Dear Flesh,

I want all body, all, and all

the scent
she said, and all the trees at once

let down their leaves and skin dissolved

like it was weather, lessening, and it was

cool and fall inside the room.

In this ritual of the world’s limbs,

inelegant and rough but overwhelmed,

it was mere touch as sweet as deep green grass

at night, the eight o’clock of it,

the thin dream full of leg,

descending whim of the natural world

as a blanket on the bed

oh love,

in how my waist gives up to you,

this vast wandering, its cool and swift extravagance,

touch me again.




Amy Newman and Nerve.com   



limbs have fallen from some uncertain dream,

these small, useless gestures

of little, childish green. These early,

thoughtless leavings of the hard night’s rain, and

what was it you said before I disappeared beneath the

ivory of the sheets? Dear love, touch me again.

Someone’s mouth, a hurt promise

of all that can be soft, or its mate, the distinct hurt

of sex. Soft as this image: curled small tea

unfurling in water; hard as this:

architecture of your flesh. Between the rushing weight

of rain and the world’s restless spin,

the outside littered with tendril and seed.

Across the acre of blue, green,

a morning’s glimpse, this view of the sky

whose pulse of leaves resists

what I imagined the possibility of a tree could be:

the body rudely drawn, thick root.

And I a vestibule, the simple love of viscera

and all that timeless skin.

This moment of waking,

the desperate, cool and waiting blood.




Amy Newman and Nerve.com   

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