summer monsoons

susan smith nash



The dark is breathless

in this raw night.

My former idea,

who I thought I was

I am liquid

ink soaking into a page,

dye sponged up by cloth,

tears sinking

into someone's skin.


hot wet nights, hotter days

confession is a way

to deliverance

to a field knee-high with leaves

to a wealth of realities


like pearls