Patty Nash
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GOODMAN BROWN
Preoccupied like a bug
With past wrongdoings
Sofia cuts her hair
With rusted scissors
Jagging a line
Near her delicate corneas
As I’m getting mayonnaise
Massaged into my scalp
Or I did
Hoping to gross
Out the lice
I’ll spoil you, it
Was futile, though
Even now I can smell it
Like burnt toast
The psychic alluded to
In the formative scene
It’s frozen and buttered
And atop of that, salted
Like a large precious mineral
I could lick from a wall
If you gave me 20 dollars
And even if you didn’t
I’ve no compunction
Barely even periods
Throughout much of history
Instead a platonic
Saltine need
For a single grain
Of milk rice in the shaker
My mother made me
When I was ill
Which I am not
Now though the line
Between wellness
And its opposite
Gets fungible
Easier to like
Luxury velveteen
Recliners in the theater
Making audible breaths
Then halting them
Or watching an antecedent
Device nostalgics
Like lighting
Like torches
You could decorate your yard
Or get at Home Depot
With while doing it
What with the medial
Circumlocution around it
Its shift to the next thing
What fireworks sound like
Their connotations
I free my location
For fifteen minutes
Hope I’m encrypted
Directly following that
A blue-eyed avatar with a laptop
Pursuing her caffeinated friend
Who lifts his pinkie
Like I do on my bow
Which I shouldn’t
Do as I’m no
Baroque violinist
Without my vibrato
Though I prefer it
It makes everything
Emphatic and just
Goes to show
Everything I know
Informs me like a wellspring
A big, hollow gulch
I close my eyes and picture
In an act of self-soothing
Not believing in it
Or for that matter
Anything at all
Biographical Statement
Patty Nash is a poet. Her work has been published in DIAGRAM, Sixth Finch, Annulet, and elsewhere. More information at patty-nash.com.