Amanda Nadelberg Poems






Today is not a day to be pregnant.

The environs are such that

anything could result in an

anti-pregnancy. The air

pressure makes a

fetus impossible. On

airplanes especially. Once,

I was driving, trying not to

get pregnant in Missouri and

the billboard this one billboard

in northern Missouri almost

Iowa said if you think you’re

fat now, wait until you’re

pregnant. For the most part

the roads there are for

truckers who all go home

and tell their wives and

girlfriends and daughters.

I went home I am not

a trucker and I laughed

at Missouri and Iowa for

where they are. A face and

its belly a big belly in

the middle of the country.

Missouri is always pregnant.







Spanish soap and

Dial soap were

walking through a

forest when the

spirit jumped out

from the bushes.


Where are you going?

Aruba they say.

For what?

We bought a

timeshare they say.

Take me with you.

How much do you

weigh—there’s a

weight limit. I don’t

eat much. Okay. Let’s

see. Come into my

purse. There. Perfect.


The spirit fits into

the side compartment

and weighs almost

nothing. Dial soap and

Spanish soap and the

secret spirit all go

to Aruba for two weeks

in February. The end.






Like a name like

flower. Like a

country like the

sound of a state.

Once we drove

in a small car

through a field of

tulips so red so

red the sky had

to leave. The sky

was not itself and

all that was left

was gray so gray

that red could

seem more red

than anything. That

day so many cars

stopped, people

ran into the

field and made

intonations to the

tulips. It was

February. A good

month for tulips.

In a small country

with a view of

the ocean.






Amanda Nadelberg's first book, Isa the Truck Named Isadore, won the 2005 Slope Editions Book Prize and will be available Spring 2006. Other poems have appeared or will soon appear in Tarpaulin Sky, Octopus, jubilat and Conduit. She grew up in Boston and currently lives in Minneapolis




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