Poems by Mike Nichols

by Mike Nichols

Going Away Party

The last of the relatives have entered the house to

clutch fizzy pink drinks in clear plastic cups.

No one raises one to their lips.

And me, holding my wasted and almost dead

mother in my arms as if she were

a sleepy four-year-old.

My mother croaks a question: Why did I not open the

door to her room and step inside and hold her

cooling hand and say goodbye?

And I have no satisfactory answer. It’s just that I was scared.

I was afraid the sight of her colorless body would

overwhelm me. I couldn’t push through it.

Instead, I walked into the night with a white joint and a black lighter which

made a blue and yellow flame. All while knowing other sixteen-year-olds

were often brave and did the right thing.

At the gathering, I remember thinking, “How can you miss someone

whom you hold in your arms?”

Irreconcilable Differences

When she entered the room I had already

gone, but she sensed me. I left behind the

weight of my absence and the metallic

humidity of blood she’d later scrub away.

She wasn’t squeamish. She spoke to me.

She said this would not be alright, said she

would never not be angry with me. She hoped

I was happy now, but she didn’t mean it.

In the dim half moonlight she knows

the viscous shadow puddle of black

will appear. Always when she sees this,

she mutters, “Fuck you anyway, you asshole.”

Other nights the sound of her sobbing stays hard

inside her, joins the silent twin streams on her

cheeks. Through tear cataracted eyes she refuses

to see me, still standing in the doorway.

Thirty Six Snows

It’s January, and where

is my mother? Not

falling through this

pale night sky.

Her crystalline form

floated frozen to top

the dirty snow

so long ago.

I hold one palm

against the sky,

a supplication to snow

gods. The snowflakes melt

against my skin. I turn my

hand, causing them to roll

together, gathering mass

until they drip down. And as each droplet

splats on the ice below I feel

not even a brief connection.

I think how the Earth travels

this darkness, tries to spin us

off its skin. Where we stop,

nobody knows.