Castles Made Of Sand

“Reach for the stars,” they said.

“Follow your dreams,” they said.

I flew too close to the sun.

I burnt my wings.

The fall was fucking glorious.

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I think he’d even ask for you

my sweet, small son with

so much light in his eyes

is busy wrapping small fingers

around everything he shouldn’t


and you are not here to call out that

bellowing “yo”, shake your head and

belly laugh, sip a glass of chianti

I’d  snuck next to your plate.


I bet he’d stay on your lap just

a bit longer than anyone else’s.


I bet you’d have some way of

taming this small beast that

would leave us all wondering, how.


I think he’d even ask for you

when his tongue starts forming words.


I still think he’ll know to,

somehow, even with you gone –

grandpa, great grandpa, I love you. 




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My Short Dress — A Buick in the Land of Lexus

My beautiful friend Samara reminds us that women can wear whatever the f*ck we want.

My short dress is not an invitation. It’s not a political statement. it’s not feminist; it’s not slutty. I’m not even sure it’s fashionable. My short dress is one of the only dresses I own. I’m not a ‘dresses’ kind of girl. I prefer jeans and rock tees and clothes that align my outside […]

via My Short Dress — A Buick in the Land of Lexus


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Dear Beautiful Boy,



I swear I dreamed you up and

That you are really made of starlight.

When you sleep I reach out and connect our

Constellations, just to be sure there are no kinks.


I measure the sharpness of your face and

Wonder if you will be the opposite of me:

A force, a light that others are drawn to like

I am drawn to you. Will you believe in God?

You can believe in anything you want to.


My love for you will never be measured

By your accomplishments.


I am your Mama, Beautiful boy,

long hair or short, ink on your skin,

a painted face, a red dress, on sunny days

and in a rainstorm.


Show me your teeth and your fists

And I promise, I’m your Mama then, too,

Still checking our connections.


There is no conditional love here.



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I call him love

I was hollow, once

still am

just knock, knock, knock

call out and you’ll hear yourself

for days behind my ribcage.


except I’ve been building

something special

in my quiet, novice way

dragging my tools to the

old shed out back in the rain,

plugging away in the half-light.


I call him love,

I keep him on a shelf

imperfectly painted green,

or turquoise,

 or maybe the exact shade

of some body of water from

some time I can’t really remember.


He’s by the only window, love

where the only ray of sunlight creeps in

and he grows and grows and grows

and sometimes we talk, but he’s still learning

and I know love loves me like I love him.





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all that we cannot change

my son chases sunrays that filter in and

dance across our living room floor,

and my heart is heavy.


in all those late-night conversations

let’s have a child, let’s move mountains, create miracles

there was a should we? that lingered on my husband’s lips,



life, I said. it happens all around us. it stops for nothing.

not even for the darkest of days.

we still love, we still create.


we chase sunrays,

shape happiness with shaking hands


drive cars and drink wine and laugh

and laugh and laugh


and then we cry for all that we cannot change.


but then we sigh, take another sip, compose ourselves.

hug our children and whisper I love you and watch

our favorite television shows and drown out all the badness.


I touch my son’s cheek

I dream of his future

still, I regret nothing.



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we still love



she spies love

like a hurricane in her thin chest.


he holds her with rough hands,

makes use of his photographic memory

when he holds her and she turns away.


but remember this, she says:

we used to love in the dark,

when love was a good sunrise,

when our bodies understood one another,


before time made us love just a little more quietly.


we still love, she says.


only this way:

with each gentle sway of our son as he falls asleep in our arms

in fingers interlocked across the console after grocery shopping

at the dinner table, covered in conversation and pureed carrots

in sighs of exhaustion and mumbled goodnights


and sometimes




in a damn good sunrise.


**Hi from the parent side of things!!! It’s been WAY too long….but I’m still trudging along with this chapbook and raising this absolutely amazing little boy (who is almost ONE, by the way).

I’ll try to show my face around these parts a bit more often. I hope everyone is well.



Nicole Marie




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One Year

Three hundred and sixty-five days

Of life and death, my body swelling

Then returning – partially – to its original state.

All the while my insides are in a state of panic.


I bury my face in the crook of my son’s neck and

Somewhere in that small space I smell you.

He runs a fat finger across your photograph and you whisper to us.


I tell him all about you, this mythical creature, his great-grandfather.

He stares at the slow unhinging and hinging of my jaw, a mystery itself.


He smiles and I think the creases at the corners of his mouth could be yours.

You would laugh at his curiosity; you’d lift him even if you felt too sick.


If I could say it, say I believe in somewhere other than here,

I’d say you’re still sitting at the dinner table, watching the

incoordination of his small hands.



A huge thank you to those who continue to check in and follow my blog! I am still trying to balance my two loves: writing and my sweet baby boy. Of course, baby boy wins most of the time.🙂 I am also hoping to begin work on a chapbook, focused on the loss of my grandfather (just over one year ago), and the connection I feel he has to my son, who shares his birthday. I will continue to post on here, although my posts may be scarce for a while…and of course to follow along with all of you.


Nicole Marie






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“Find Me When You’re Starting Over” by Nicole Marie

My friend Christy was kind enough to re-share a poem of mine, originally featured during the start-up of her page, Words for the Weekend. Please, give it a read and check out her page, Words for the Year; there are so many influential pieces waiting to be read.

Words for the Year

I twisted into me
into knots and threads of darkened memory
like tree trunk rings or strips of film
of jagged time.

There are shards of light there
in those tied up corners
and those softened edges
of flesh and bone.

Hold me up to the sun
and study the maps
that run through my veins
they’re all places I have been.

The signs along the highway
have turned a jaded green
but I remain a brilliant
shade of transparent gold.

I can guide you at night
I can teach you
spread out on the hood of your car
one finger on some tiny destination.

I am a breathing mess of
sun down and sun up
of abandoned buildings
and new beginnings.

Find me when you’re starting over
I have been everywhere
I have grown rings
twisted into the depths of me.

“Find Me When You’re Starting Over” by Nicole…

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Mother in the Dark



I have built a respectable home

With all the muddy flesh of motherhood.

My son nestles in and dreams with small hands

That cup the treasures on my chest – his now,

Soft and modest as they are but dripping

Liquid gold into his open, expectant mouth.


I mourn for a body that is no longer mine

Yet is strength without muscle. I run tired fingers

Along all the fullness of me and knead shapes

Into the flesh like some sort of amateur potter.

I throw words at my reflection: nourishment,

Goddess, humbled origin.


In the dark I belong to me, to my husband’s

Large hands that cup the two soft, pale things

On my chest he claims to be in awe of but I am

Heavy as the ocean once again. He hovers over me

Like molasses, whispers gentle reminders into

Every inch, every gentle curve.





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