Poetry By Kaye Nash

        Andrew Seaman CC



Hinges

Herman Melville had a sign by his desk
that read, “Remember the dreams
of thy youth.” I dreamed of a world
so bright and endless that I would never need
to find myself a place within it.
There would always be more. I could go on,
I thought, forever.

I built myself this way, for this world; 
made my skin hard like metal, and smooth 
enough that all ties would slip away. If we come
from love, I reasoned, we never need to move
towards it; it is always safely behind us. A beloved child
is free to be callus, to run, to let snowflakes
settle in its hair, to let its cheeks grow red and cold.

It was much later that I learned
that I did not come from love.

It was much later still that I learned that the world
gets brighter the closer we get to its end, 
every light rallying against the dark that gathers
at the edge of the park like wolves; and my skin
grew rough enough for the ties to stick,
but no softer, no less metallic.

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Kaye Nash is a poet and teacher from Vancouver Island. She began her writing career while living and teaching just outside Taipei, but now lives with her family in Canada once again. She has had poetry published in Necro Magazine, The Literary Mark, Amethyst Review, Mookychick, Lunate, Nymphs, and Dear Reader Poet, as well as in anthology projects from The Bangor, Teen Belle and Castabout Lit. She is a regular contributor at Headline Poetry and Press. She can be reached at stapletonknash@gmail.com and on Twitter at @KStapletonNash. 
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