Tamara Nicholl-Smith

Even if the Years Are Not Golden

All We Are Left With

For my mother

  I

She is a woman who's not often pleased.

     Most days, particular as Goldilocks:

          her food seems always too cold or too hot,

in every careless word a slight’s perceived,

      her things are never placed just right, her socks

          always too loose or tight. Her nerves are shot

and grip is gone. Her ills? A growing list.

      Her age is closing in, a shrinking box,

          some days she's tempted by a drastic thought.

Still, even while unhappy—to exist

           is better than to not.

  II

Still, even while unhappy — to exist

      is better than to not. To face what waits

          at being's edge, stare down its wide-mouthed jaw,

confront the endless chasm of night-dense mist

      is too much. Cling here, then, to mean estates

          and watch as time turns heirloom quilts to straw.

Cling to your disappointment, plumb its deep

      heart, and what you'll find is hope. Not fate's

          fickle decrees, but something thwarted. Draw

strength as your body fails, make one last leap:

          in the still possible, find awe.

  III

In the still possible, find awe. The day's

      remains are still flushed through with warmth. The sun's

          final refrain is yet to play, shadows

hover. Let's set the eleventh hour ablaze,

      use the dark tinder of day's end. Time shuns

          our laws to briefly pause night's clock, it follows

a greater order, grants a stay. Shed all

      complaints this hour. While breath still fills our lungs,

          revel the dancing dust that glints in meadow’s

lustrous light. Wake slow blood and heed the call.

          Touch all that glows.

The news came, sudden as a thundering.

He's gone. Like quit? No, gone, like passed away.

All we are left with is our wondering.

A dark, grim gash. This salted absence will sting.

Dry April day turned impossibly gray.

The news came, sudden as a thundering.

How? Why? At first, no one divulged a thing.

Mishap? Intention? They didn’t want to say.

All we are left with is our wondering.

He’d started working out. It was spring.

There was no note. Odd. Things had seemed okay.

The news came, sudden as a thundering.

Depression bested hope. Hope failed to cling. 

Didn't he have two sons? We’d better pray.

All we are left with is our wondering.

We are too late to share his suffering;

a fist of pills made endless night of day.

The news came, sudden as a thundering.

All we are left with is our wondering.

Tamara Nicholl-Smith’s poetry has appeared on two Albuquerque city bus panels, one Albuquerque parking meter, various radio shows, a spoken-word classical piano fusion album, and in publications such as the Mutablis Press anthologies Enchantment of the Ordinary and Chaos Dive Reunion, Kyoto Journal, The Examined Life Journal, Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry and America. She recently completed an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Saint Thomas in Houston. She enjoys puns and likes her bourbon neat. Visit her at www.tamaranichollsmith.com.