Brigid Hannon

DEAD NERVES

I quit smoking 

but this poetess

needs her hit, her puff, her drag. 

And I can still taste nicotine on my fingertips like 

the sweat on your skin. 

It’s a phantom sense

like the tingling in my toes—

Dead nerves.

I put on black nail polish and an old flannel

because I feel like sixteen again 

when the wind whips my hair up

into the tornado that hangs over my head.

Rain clouds are for amateurs and I build weather formations

to hide my intentions.

I dance with demons and dummies.

But it’s all the same

as being young and in love

before needles prickled at my skin and

left me numb. Frightened.

These little bits of a broken heart, 

these sharp shards that leave

faint pink lines on my skin 

keep me from second guessing my silly self.

This itching in my fingers is a reminder

of bad decisions and salty storms.

that youth betrayed me.

Dead nerves in my hands 

like dead nerves in my heart.