Escort me through web scatter,

through the hanging gardens

of dead (both eaten and eaters)

claimed by the cold.

Talk me through the small

bruises on our arms, the almost

fingerprints of ecstatic holding

that darken quicker below zero.

Sing me through the night

service, our tongue-tied attempts

at soliloquy, the white knuckles

gliding across our lips.

Pull me through this reed

hollow where drainage does

its birthing, where chirping things

paint the night in creaking.

John A. Nieves has poems published or forthcoming in journals such as Redivider, Fugue, Minnesota Review, Cortland Review, Adirondack Review, New Mexico Poetry Review, California Quarterly, and Florida Review. He is currently in the Creative Writing Ph.D. Program at the University of Missouri.