AMANDA HOPE

How to Land

Watching a bicycle pitch forward
over its front wheel

its rider gripped
by relentless physics

it is impossible
not to be aware

of the penalties
of being embodied--

how unlikely it is
to have been alive at all,

and how preposterous
that we expect to continue

as though we are not
water balloons

which may break
at any impact.

If I had to know this
all the time, without relent

the doctors would need to prescribe
something to me--

not because I was wrong
but because truth untempered

would take from me
every moment before

whatever is going to happen
finishes happening--

the way a stiff breeze
sent apple blossoms

across the seat of my car
as I opened the door

or the perfect quiet
of the house

as my beloved bikes away
on some errand--

doctor, fasten the lid
on that kind of knowing

or else, let me dose myself
with the Five Remembrances,

a bit more each day
like Mithridates

until the shock of knowledge
doesn’t send me

crawling from my numb
skin every time.

Now I’ve Grown into the Boots You Gave Me, Against the Rain You Knew Would Come

The problem with the dead is they can’t surprise
me anymore. They have already said

everything they ever will, and your voice
inside my head sounds more like mine.

You said the first loss is the only loss,
and each one after just reopens the same wound.

When I was small, I threw my bears
from my crib to go for help,

but they never returned from where I flung them.
You befriended every damaged bird,

in love with the loss of them, hoping one day one
would come back from the Ever with some news.

And I, living, living—boorish, careless, ungainly,
so far from that curtain that you and others

pressed their cheeks against. What did you see
in me? I walked around in your loose shoes,

trying to seem wise. I never was.
If you’re ever able to, send word.

Amanda Hope lives in eastern Massachusetts with her partner and cats. A graduate of Colgate University and Simmons College, she works as a librarian. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Salamander, The Lily Poetry Review, The Hellebore, Mason Street Review, and more. Her chapbook, The Museum of Resentments, was published by Paper Nautilus in 2020. You can find more information about her work at her website, http://www.amandahope.net.