Lost and Found

Some mornings after you
wake up itchy,
you take to the freshly
cut fields and find
the self you once were
waiting by the bales
of hay.


It slips out from
time to time like this,
mostly on special days
like the leap year’s
solstice or your
forty-seventh birthday.


Today you are wrapped
in dull grey fibers
while it is dons purple jellies
and a wrist full of rubber
bracelets in every shade
of the rainbow. It doesn’t
have eczema.


You watch it run
its neon pink fingernails
along the cattail
and want to ask it burning
questions about 1984.


It reminds you that you lent
your long-lost Portuguese
fountain pen to
Shango Jablonski’s sister
that Christmas, that


your dead brother’s
letters are sitting
in a lockbox beneath
the closet floorboards,


that there's a silent
rock star in you and
you should be making
more art.


It is showing you how
the self you mislaid
is sitting within arm’s reach
ready to rise through
the burdock;


fingers stretched,


skin clear,


body soaked
in color.


Claudine Nash is an award-winning poet whose collections include The Wild Essential (Aldrich Press, forthcoming), Parts per Trillion (Aldrich Press, 2016) and The Problem with Loving Ghosts (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in numerous publications including Asimov’s Science Fiction, BlazeVOX, Cloudbank and Haight Ashbury Literary Journal among others. She is also a practicing psychologist. www.claudinenashpoetry.com.