Nancy Murphy / Writer

writings and performances by Nancy Murphy

The 2021 Pantone Color of the Year Was Dual: ULTIMATE GRAY + ILLUMINATING


They said it was a marriage of color.
They said it was a message of strength & hopefulness.
They said it’s good to push two shades close together.
               They didn’t say that illumination makes the gray grayer.
               They didn’t say shadows make the sun brighter.
               They didn’t say eventually all paint peels.
                             (They didn’t need to put ultimate in front of gray.)

They never asked what was most valuable to us. They never asked
               how much coverage we needed.

I would have said gray dusk is not uplifting.
I would have said sunlight hurts my eyes after tears.
               I would have said I lied only when I had to.
               To avoid staining my hands, I would have done anything.
                             I never would have dropped that match so close to him.


 Anacapa Review, September 1, 2025


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Unsung


“Perhaps…every song has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
snaking underneath us as we blindly sing.” — from Ada Limon’s “Another Anthem”

Where do secrets lie? Truth hides, sometimes
out in the open, like when I pretend to know how
to eat a mango.

Is the third stanza unsung or do we deny
singing it?

The tea was too strong today, and yet I sipped.
That is how it starts. We sip and say nothing.
We listen to the sound of jets overhead
and fail to think of bombs.
I have never heard a gunshot but I expect to.

I expect everything. I am waiting
for everything.

These days there is a flatness like a Sunday
morning with no Monday in sight.

What if the third stanza of every song is the secret
of the universe, that illusive theory of everything?
Like a final crossword clue that makes the
puzzle pop into place.

But where does completion get us?

I am remembering the taste of that mango, how moist
in my mouth, how wildly sweet, how I tore into it
letting juices run to my elbows while I stood at the sink
not caring if I was viewed. How I held the pit
on my tongue until we were both spent.


 Cultural Daily, June 15, 2025


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What Is Held


My mother was a woven basket,
carrying warm laundry

from the back hall dryer.
Expanding and narrowing

for whatever we needed—
Towels, oranges, encouragement.

Multicolored stripes crisscrossed
her body like a lifeline that lost

its way home. Sides folding in
on themselves, the ways things fail.

The narrow opening at the top.
Perfect urn for ashes. I didn’t want that

Catholic wake with her cold sleeping
body. But I wasn’t there.

I had my own basket, in it a tiny infant.
When my mother’s basket broke,

I should have gone home, kept her
alive. I’m telling you, I could have.

Her final Instructions—
I should not come back

for the funeral. The funeral.
She knew. What basket holds

that knowing? What a cruel choice
I had: Save mother or daughter.

But my mother decided, fed me
from that last basket of bread.

I only had to swallow
like a baby bird.


 Cultural Daily, June 15, 2025


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Not/My Story


Not me/Not mine
 
Not moon water
Not buffalo 
Skin
 
No woman 
I know
 
Bitterroot blood
Hands/Not
 
Names of twin stars
Of mustangs
Of salt\rivers
 
No names 
I know
 
                                    Murdered
                                    
By everyone
I know
 
Everyone 
We were
We are
 
Me too
 
No more\Invisible 
Wolf


 The Ekphrastic Review, November 19, 2024


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