Two poems by Amee Nassrene Broumand

The War

A lotus can’t become words—life
bleeds out. Still I struggle
to engrave the water’s face, the lotic

Mess:

Daylight speckles the orchard.

I long to pin this dragonfly down
& press her in a tome, but she defies all essay
of inchworm & scissors
to sass other worlds

within the known. Define this
to quell the itch.

This:

α) I ramble through faded grasses at sunset, collecting night
on my bootlaces. Listen—the rush of the abandoned lot.

β) A whiff of oenanthic hooks.

Lopsided & ankyroid, the riverside moon
pours buttermilk over rusted cars.

γ) Alice drifts through tides of pumpkin bisque.

In time—in a trick of the light—she dissolves
into swarms of plankton as they linger, curious.

The mushroom balloons wider in the dark.

3 Seconds Pressed in a Book

Smile—a sign with teeth drowns in the plaza fountain.
Shimmering circles dim as pennies mimic the sun.

A soldier plays the violin on the corner, coat billowing—
she sails in a cardboard boat across the sidewalk.

The harbor is empty.