by John A. Nieves

Old clove by the baseboard leans like a downed
mailbox but promises no
                 missive. It has given up
long ago what we would covet it for, has instead
bedded down with our daily
                 flakings and leftover
paint. The mace holds the nutmeg like it believes
it can open it, find some sustenance inside, but it has
no muscle. It has even lost
                 its threat to our eyes.
And, like little droppings, two abandoned allspice
berries cluster in the corner as if hiding from some
secret gale. They could
                 have said so much to
our tongues had they stayed in place. Alone here,
they tell me nothing of taste, but of slippage. What
is spilled is often forgotten, but I
                 see you here. I know
what we could have done if we had taken just a tiny
more care.

John A. Nieves has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: Alaska Quarterly Review, Iowa Review, American Poetry Review, swamp pink and 32 Poems. A 2025 Pushcart Prize winner, he also won the Indiana Review Poetry Contest and his first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize. He is associate professor of English at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry.