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Poetry By
  Nita Sembrowich

Published on: 11/6/2013
Swimming on the North Shore

At five o'clock, the beach house closes.
I roll up my towels and go
back on the train, past the trophy homes
the writing on industrial walls
all the weeds that prophesy fall
purple loosestrife, goldenrod
the slant of shadow that proclaims
the waning of the day;

back through the suffocating tunnel
of the subway
back to the crowds, the cars, the honking and the swelter—

like soul almost, so nearly free
rejoined to irksome flesh—

reluctantly, loath to relinquish the light.

Published on: 11/4/2013

My unknown love:

I keep tapping, tapping,
hoping to reach you
on the other side of this wall.

I know you're there.

If I can't break through, I won't despair.
Instead, I'll scrawl my name
like a teenager in a toilet stall,
settling for fame, no matter how inglorious.

Maybe one day you'll see it, and disapprove.
Or maybe you'll laugh indulgently
and marvel and the strangeness.
A life like yours!
So distant, yet familiar!

Maybe you'll write your name, too.

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