“The Formal Beginnings of Packing,” a Poem by Amanda Nadelberg

At some point I stopped stopping
to write, life a mark of living not clicking.
I wore verbs around my neck
swam to think in lengths
and stretch the small of my back.

Don’t picture me pausing
to take a photograph
I wrote about syntax in Frost
not the woods.

In subsequent years I wondered
what attention was, yours, mine, the
hours I displaced in proximity
learning a metal song in
quarters of light, pretending to score
dinner like a tableau, reconstructing mirrors

in the wild nest of country living.
False blankets, rose algorithm; the man
descended some stairs and cached
several years of our lives; it was
intended. I practiced a speech to certain men:

You are small and I will pluck
your mouths and plant them
in a river where no one
can hear what you think.

When I remember the imagination
it sings. On the eighth day
God said this is what a poem is.
My heart and probably yours
stutters.

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From Shake Until Cloudy. Used with the permission of the publisher, The Song Cave. Copyright © 2026 by Amanda Nadelberg