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Claudine Nash is a psychologist and award-winning poet whose collections include The Wild Essential (Aldrich Press: Kelsay Books, 2017), Parts per Trillion (Aldrich Press: Kelsay Books, 2016) and the chapbook The Problem with Loving Ghosts (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her work has received Pushcart Prize nominations and has appeared in a wide range of magazines and anthologies including Asimov's Science FictionBlazeVOXCloudbankHaight Ashbury Literary Journal, and Dime Show Review.
 Website: www.claudinenashpoetry.com.
Things for Which You Thirst
By Claudine Nash

​   
Your brain awakens 
thirsty and the coffee 
that beckons is 
dehydrating. For 
your mother's sake, 
drink some water 
before walking the dog. 
You are lightheaded 
and can lose fluid 
just by breathing. 

The body often mistakes 
thirst for hunger. You 
eat huge quantities 
of distraction but your 
mouth is still dry. 
Newsfeeds are salty, 
chatter full of empty 
calories. You are 
thirsting for something 
hearty to move you; 
the end of fossil fuels, 
world peace, a good 
book. You need a 
project.  

You search for liquid
and unearth a world 
of related content; 
absorption, barometric 
pressure, hyper salinity 
and the Dead Sea. You 
read that fluid shifts 
in and out of cells
during deep space 
travel. You just wish 
someone would make 
you some soup. You 
wish someone would 
type out some magical 
incantation to drive 
water through your 
bones or at least spark 
a piece of art. Again, 
you are picking up 
the phone

Strange but True
By Claudine Nash

​   
1. Once I lifted 
a piece of the light
that streamed
between us and
stuck it in a
moment only I 
could open.


        2. This angle of light 
        is invading my 
        synapses. It does 
        not shift. 


3. A rogue stream 
of particles once 
slipped through this 
moment. Once 
you looked at me 
and that same piece 
of light poured 
from your 
pupils. 

A year later, 
I dream of 
nothing but 
dust. 

        4. Those photons 
        became encased
        in crystal. I leave 
        fingerprints all 
        over its surface,
        everything I touch
        feels like glass.


5. Last week it crept 
into the garden
and wound its way
around the ivy. 
Today, it spilled all 
over the mint.  
Now I can’t 
make mojitos.


        6. Sometimes I hold
        this moment
        like a wandering 
        child. Granted, 
        my grip might be 
        a bit too tenacious.


7. I am releasing 
it now, but dread
the dim gap 
that lies beneath. 
Oddly,
I’ve been known
to struggle a bit
with empty spaces. 


        8. Sometimes
        I get a little 
        stuck.
The Theory of Everything
By Claudine Nash

​   
Once, 
you looked 
at me
and with 
your eyes 
touched 
the need 
I cannot 
bear to see, 

reached in 
without warning,
and lifted
its stirring form
from a long
and deadened 
sleep.

This is why 
now when 
we meet, 
I stare at 
your knees, 

I make 
such lousy
eye contact.