Susan Smith Nash



I drop the raw, live ware, plugged-in

into the pool of water where I am standing –


grape lips, scorched soles,

wired hair, convulsions –


remind me of you


in your touch inexplicable voltage –

the amperage is what kills

(or fails to)

and still, tears scar,

or didn’t I know that?


a room thick with charged vapor and wanting;

flames jolting the blue out of my eyes,

and yet the color refuses to budge


amnesia was the gift

this was supposed to deliver –

I can’t remember your name

but the longing

is worse

than ever.