No. 1

I’m looking

I’m looking

for a love of space

And for that space to love me

A requited romance with space

Where is it?

How do I get there?

Am I here?

Is this house – this city – that place?


No. 2

The smell of tea tree oil and vanilla hung in the air.

A stain upon her old sundress

Sun poured through an open window

Burned matches on her bedside table


She turned to the door

Ready to depart from a place that held so much dark


But the gray followed even if she no longer stayed

in that room,

that building,

that city.


Tinctures and herbal remedies covered

That bedside table.

Dust appeared on three melted down lavender-scented candles

as the days turned to weeks and beyond

as she continued

to move away

from that space.


No. 3

Lilac bushes lined the walkway. Their perfume soaked the air with

an intangible sweetness.

My childhood played in my head

like a 1920s film – no words, just music and black and white imagery.


I was guided by autonomous feet to the end of the walkway

To the sea

That beckoned to me.

The frothy stew hit my legs, chilling me

from the outside in. The salt was

foreign to me.

I mistook that moment,

that longing for my great lake

as a sign to go



Not yet.

Not now.


No. 4

I dreamt as the woman in the back of the china shop told me I must

I dreamt until I heard the voice she said to listen for told me that

I could not rest

I could not truly return

until I had fulfilled what I had been sent away to do.


I sensed the last moment of home there.

I knew when I felt the plane take off and my seat belt increased pressure across my chest that

this was it.

“Michigan’s in the rear view now” the song spat out at me.


The adventure, my life’s purpose awaited and I

I had to listen as the voice softly told me

to keep

moving, to keep


You are nowhere close to being done, it whispered, there is much still planned for you and it is not here, not in this space either.


Love the place while and if you can but keep

your bags packed. There is an expiration date on this space,

My darling,

My dove

And you will never see it coming.


Do you enjoy reading the Nass?

Please consider donating a small amount to help support independent journalism at Princeton and whitelist our site.