Route 7 Review
Issue # 2015
JOHN A. NIEVES
Perpetual Inventory (Things I Am Learning)
How a matchstick on the tongue implies fire.
How the wind weighs more in daylight.
How spirits burn the lips and throat.
How spirits are memories etched in air.
How etching is violent and done with acid.
JOHN A. NIEVES
Take a Deep Breath and Become
Forget the panic—
the red candle, the signet ring, symbol
made solid, sealed. Instead, take in
the message, the ghost voice abutting
your oneness. Was there a tiny lilt,
some leaf-shaped promise that refused
to fall all winter, a webbed imprint
on your cheek?
Forget the morning—
some whispers will persist
until the cracking dawn. Rename
them music. Set new words
to the tune, your words. This
instead of the steady thrumming,
the angry clock, the rasp
of obligation clearing
its throat. What comes?
If the lamp lights your slender
fingers and they respond,
will they know the rhythm? Can you
only measure brightness
in what has faded? If you hear me,
please tap once on the glass. I know
it’s late, but I promise I will
answer. I promise louder than
distance, louder than the storm.
JOHN A. NIEVES
Well after Sunset
The moon rent the sky,
leaving a gash of cold light—
a beacon—a battle axe.
Your eyes shivered.
You put a red marker to your hand,
scratched an arrow.
It will never point west.
You averted your eyes—
like you could feel the trees staring you down,
whispering you into submission.
I sipped a beer,
put my feet up on a mossy rock.
It will never point west.
You were blushing.
The angry coils of your hair
fended off another kidnapping attempt by the North Wind.
It will never point west.
You held your arms out at your side.
You looked more like you were drowning than flying,
but the stars weren’t moved,
and the grass rose against you.
JOHN A. NIEVES
Fair Day
A soggy dollar peered out from under a piece of trash—
a crushed can of Fanta that showed only the “ant”
and a tiny troop marching into the mouth as if they could read.
I pulled the buck out quickly.
It dripped orange soda, wet dirt and a few stray ants.
I held it at arm’s distance and marched
directly toward the carousel, laid it across
the flaky little palm of the man at the gate.
A tiger.
I picked a tiger to the left of a camel
between a grey horse and a four-legged duck.
As the machine creaked to life,
I moved toward and away from my almost fortune—
the grubby green ticket to spin that the gatekeeper
was still rubbing between his thumb and middle finger.
JOHN A. NIEVES
Optical Illusion
The longing glance of a lover
that whispers a tale of rapture
could easily be focused on
a body in another room—
eyes that see further than the smile
in front of them, eyes that hide in
that same distance.
John A. Nieves's poems are forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: Southern Review, Southern Humanities Review, Poetry Northwest, Minnesota Review and Salamander. His first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize and came out in early 2014. He is an Assistant Professor of English at Salisbury University. He received his M.A. from USF and his Ph.D. from the University of Missouri.