All posts by nadia k grant

mechanic’s daughter

my dad is a mechanic
and he has a mechanic’s daughter

there isn’t a toilet or a bumper
that money (if able) or time (if poor) can’t fix
and there’s no use crying
over spilled milk or spilled paint or holes burned
into the center of the carpet

and the snickers in the stables
over a purple bicycle helmet and Kmart brand-Tim’s
are silly
since it’s just as functional as a velvet
hat and leather boots when sailing over a fence
or being bucked into one

a doctor’s daughter doesn’t know how to patch drywall
and a mechanic’s daughter may not either
but she knows she could learn if needed and she knows
that holes or not
it doesn’t matter

my dad is a mechanic
and i am a mechanic’s daughter

sounds like something serious

five years is a long time
but it doesn’t seem so bad when punctuated
by wine and whiffs of coffee
drifting from the mug tucked into my purse
and the note that reads ‘you got this’

they say if you listen
close there’s the contractions and closing of valves
that muscle
the conductor
sending blood to every corner
and (somewhere between
the cells) connecting the mystery of your soul
to the dark rooms of my mind
changing the paint
opening the windows
hanging up mirrors and lights

they say stay near the sounds
that make you happy to be alive

 

rosey

the rose bush out back refuses
to die. strangled in vines, covered in fungus
the branches brittle and dry
i gave it a hand because like everyone else
the bush was barely getting by
sick of the pieces
sick of big ideas
sick of the storms and the nights

and do you know that stupid bush bloomed
a single, light pink rose
a day later it was blown apart but hey
what other life does it know

on sadness

you can leave it by the seaside
while you frolic in the waves
have you ever been thrown
by the ocean in a thunderstorm?
you’re not supposed to do that, but

other times you can rest it on the bar
pick up a long stem of red wine
or salted tequila, urged on by a friend
as long as there’s laughter, it lays
like a wet coaster
like a nightmare dissolving
in the morning sun

each morning you strap it to your back
or slip it into your pocket (if it’s small
enough) and so does everyone else
so sometimes it’s hard to look
because you see theirs too
and sometimes you find
somewhere to leave it
if only for a while
and it’s worth
the wait
but

all of my favorite distractions

there’s no madness like that in a writer
it’s nothing special, just a flavor
not quite like that in the unshowered man rolling
in the park grass shouting Jesus is the savior, he’s coming
for us all (but not distinctly
separate)
it’s different than the hundred hour work week or the plump
lipped, stretched faced surprise
of an aging beauty

the madness of the writer isn’t as open
it’s early mornings and drunken nights
dark eyes lit by a glowing screen, painstakingly
writing and rewriting a terrible, awful,
skill less story that no one will ever
read

the writer might as well try to spin gold
but there’s no cure. do you ever know
if you’re feeding the restlessness
or just lying beside it?