Her father was raised
on a fire licked stage
of concrete and
streetlight discipline;
Hail Mary was stuffed in
dirt caked boots,
for nights when
only milk and potatoes
sat like church folk
on the dinner table.
Her mother worshipped
neon lights,
cream based vanity,
sex in lace and satin;
skin on skin
was tactless youth,
not nine months
of crater weight
in tight jeans,
tight skin.
From birth she
couldn’t quite explain
those empty hallway feelings,
like still air in a hurricane;
her smile spread
as thin as her ankles,
maybe as thin as
her own
more than fragile wonderment
strung up in the hallway.
Life twisted through seasons
of apple pie and
fragile temperaments
wading in the boiling pot;
freedom was
nothing more than
elbows on a windowsill
or else the impossible genius,
breathing deep and blowing
starlight on the doorstep.
Nicole Marie
“Like still air in a hurricane.”
Damn, woman. Breath-taking.
Stunning.
Welcome in my world
Marcello