Your weekly serving of verse for National Poetry Month, by Nicole Hardy

This poem by Seattle writer-waitress Nicole Hardy — from "This Blonde," her book of canny, conversational poems about bartending, flirting and other matters — has a harder edge than some of its companions, with its tough-gal skepticism and melancholy undertow. I'm not quite sure about the mixed sand-flea/ mosquito-dark metaphor in the last two lines. But there's no exaggeration here, and no self-pity: just a wry, yearning, roll-with-the-blows stoicism.

Poetry Month continues through April. Look for more poems by Northwest writers on this page every Thursday until May.

Michael Upchurch, Seattle Times arts writer

I Stay the Night

just to have another person

breathing in the room, an arm

laid heavy across my chest.

It's the foolproof cure,

according to Cosmo, Glamour,

Marie Claire, and every other

subscription to the band-aid brand

of advice column living:

Invite a stranger's twelve-hour

beard into the inside skin

of upper arm, stomach, thigh —

what better sandpaper to erase

every trace of the one

who came before, stave

off heartache like those eight

unwanted holiday pounds.

The art of giving in doesn't call

for a bed of hot coals — any walk will do

when accompanied by the desire

for a more predictable pain. First thing

after waking, I check my body

for bites. I know about sand fleas,

that some skin isn't meant for exposure

to the lush mosquito dark.

Nicole Hardy, from "This Blonde" (Main Street Rag, $14)