Sample Poems by Nina Bannett

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Old Times

I am a hyphen here, a semicolon when needed,
a means of joining. 
 
An antediluvian era, 
folding family sheets, my arms outstretched,
another daughter at the table.
 
I revel in the low tide as sharp seashells comb my toes,
a scolding to watch myself.
 
Your judgments drown me out:
the roaring, the sea at your back. 
My capitulation swallows me whole.
I am Jonah in your mouth.
 

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If Friendship Were a Cathedral
   
Held in place by weight, history, a problematic construction. Fixed but hinged, pure compression. At first she resolves forces, eliminates stresses. Later she becomes gothic in the construction of her world. The connections at her base are pinned. I am family when it suits; without more demands I will collapse. We try internal ties as well as external bracing. She moves towards greater height, light, volume. Calls this marriage. Children, land, suburbs, all inspire devotion in a different direction. I must aim towards the light of God. She imagines a four-hundred year reign. I am more intuitive, less technical. Aiming towards light, I do not see the dire consequences of her choices. I assume always a shining embrace, an ability to listen, a loving way to view her. I do not see the sky as it narrows. Sharpness surprises me. Glass stained in anger. Church built on my shame.   

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A Member of Her Family
   
I was rendered sightless,
a pillow placed
over my face,
your little brother
cushioning the first absurd blow,
a child’s rage my first entrance
into alternate home
full of fun, a fuzzy family story
stretched like cotton candy through decades,
a welcome laugh,
a hearty punch.

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Ten Minutes Closer
   
Label boxes of photo albums,
hunt down what’s missing,
 
observe the vigorous family cleaning
that will void your past
 
marking what will be different
 
no more graffiti of the bad boy
lived on your soon-to-be old block
dreamy in his wrong
 
you’ll be ten minutes closer to me
sedate with new beige paint
 
we will confide, teenage fashion,
crack like cardamom pods,
survive like fantasy debutantes,
digest each other with gulps of fennel.