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.

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

 

 

 

 

Mirrors

(http://emilypfreeman.com/writing-2/story/)

Your hands are your father’s

Only smaller, smoother like

The glassy sunsets of uncommon

Jewels. You raise life to your mouth

For inspection, you drink it in like wine.

I imagine your world in the prisms of

A periscope; you are seeing things I am much

Too jaded to see. The first hint of light that works

To wake me is your hundredth sunrise. Each

Morning you open your eyes and dream.

***

Our beautiful baby boy certainly keeps me busy and unable to post here as often as I’d like to, but thank you to those who continue to stop by and read my words. I truly appreciate it!

xo

Observations

When you are most still is when I see you best.

There are blood vessels in your eyelids that are
shaped like diamonds and the slope of your nose
is something all its own (I’ve shook my head in front
of the bathroom mirror enough times to know it isn’t mine).

I listen closely to your resting breath and
it hums softly and consistently as summer evenings;
occasionally it shifts and for a moment is the
whooshing of an ocean wave.

I place a hand to the curve of your back
and wish for more time – always, more time.
The thick, pink flesh above your elbows
is my contribution to this world.

I can’t fit any more life in me,
I’m so full of love for you.

When We Are Here

Somewhere, ages ago now
I was setting sail on bones and ash,
catching the wind with an old t-shirt,
watching you and everything I knew
turn doll-size in the distance.

Miles had spread at a viral rate
by the time I went overboard and you

you

were already there to buoy me back to shore,
to refill my chest with all the reasons there were to stay
and when I opened my eyes all I noticed was the
brilliant orange of the sun as it left us.

So I’ve been using all your edges to keep me upright
but you’ve never seemed to mind (you’re too busy
seeing me in some post-apocalyptic calm, something
I cannot), you who chooses over and over to
stand out in the rain with me.

It’s all so surreal now, way back behind us,
and it feels like someone else’s temporary sorrow
when we are here, cradling the shiny newness of a
living, breathing thing that has your mouth, my chin, your nose.

It is almost impossible to think how simple
a decision it was, to look into your eyes, nod, press my mouth,
my body to yours and suddenly we were changed.

I think I’ll spend forever thanking you.

Mothers

(http://themetapicture.com/these-pictures-are-what-dreams-are-made-of/)

you are little more than
silk against my breast,
eyes closed with gentle
willingness while I am
frantically carving every one
of your miniscule movements
in a place where I can pit them
against my own lack of comfort –

these early suns and moons
are all those ones we should
remember like dreams, if
only I could stop trying to
decode the twitching of your
eyelids, counting your lashes,
listening for your ocean breath
through a misshapen shell –

you are content despite
your mother’s beautiful
weariness, her eyes that
are glass no matter your state
and I have been told that I
will still sneak to you at night,
when you are much larger than
I am, if only to steal a little peace.

who I am and who I will be

(http://ink361.com/app/users/ig-14811147/photos)

I am having trouble
imagining you outside of
my imagination
outside of my own skin,
you are still so much a part of me
that there is no explanation
for the waves that move
without routine between my bones

your eyes are still all
clouds and smoke –
I dream of your mouth
like cinnamon
that will bow,
that will open
and call out for me

this foreign, self-defining thing
I’ve put up on the mantel
and dusted like some
undeserving prize is
something too surreal to
take down, to examine too
closely for detail, I am
so afraid it will slip smoothly
between my fingertips

for now you are still
the loveliest figment
nestled between who
I am and who I will be,
this small thing, this
awkward fleeting girl
with the readjusting
heart for you, my son.

Daydreams

(http://bloggedd.com/beautiful-surreal-paintings-of-daydreaming-maidens/)

No May will be the same, perched with
legs barely pretzeled against round earth belly;
I am waiting for your glorious arrival, curtained in sweat
and sighs of relief and tears like spring showers growing life.

But there is something else there too, wondering
if grief and blinding love could link arms for an
evening on the edge of my hospital bed.

I wonder if you’ll arrive on the day he
was born, wrapped in some form of him.
I wonder if I’ll know it (in the shape of your eyes)
in the way your small mouth might curve unknowingly
like it is full of all his stories, like it is screaming I’m near.

Maybe he’ll take every strength he wished
he’d had and place it in your hands and feet,
maybe when I hold you I’ll be holding him too.

At night I rest my head on quiet thoughts
of him here, just as flesh and blood as you
are flesh and blood, just as warm, and in
delicate pockets of time he is asking to be
the one to sing you to sleep.

a poet to her son

(https://www.pinterest.com/maternitique/the-maternal-muse/)

the holy thrumming of the fan

in our bedroom is chanting your

lullaby in protective undertones.

 

I am cozy, staring into the poised

bassinet that will hold you just less

than cocooned to me in ten short weeks.

I practice knowing the smell of you,

I stay up later than I’m barely able just

to shake hands with the exhaustion

we’ll happily lend a room to.

 

and you – you are practicing self defense

beneath my flesh; to you, the only world there is.

I could make tiny wishes that you’d some day

tell me what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside:

glass-smooth jazz, a jagged pop beat?

 

I like to imagine my writer’s heart

beats like the honey of a romance novel,

appreciating with intensity every soft thump of life.

 

I question that you’ll read my work

(hold it high as Hamlet held Yorick’s skull)

hold it up to the light and memorize every vein,

test it for disease – or else wave it away as novelty.

at least do me this favor, son: read every word.

chance it. swallow it down and throw it up if you must.

this is your story, the most important I’ll ever write.

Love, Literature, & Froyo

I’ll admit, I’m ashamed about my lack of posting here lately. Screwing my head back on straight has occupied my time for quite a while. But, here I am. 🙂

So before I get back into specific posting, here’s a recap of the past few weeks, in no particular order, for those who care to know – and even those who don’t – of my doings away from the keyboard!

1. Skyrim has continued to take over my life (but I’ve gone from 5 hours of playing each day to about 2).

2. I also had a fling with “Draw Something”, but lost interested fairly quickly.

3. I’ve slowly caught the exercise “bug” again, and can barely move my limbs without wincing at the moment. A new gym: Boxing classes, Zumba classes (I can’t dance but I sure can try), Cardio Kickboxing, Zumba Toning…it all hurts so good.

4. My hair is now a lovely shade of Kool-Aid-Red! (This picture doesn’t even do the brightness justice.)

I bought those earrings this month, too!

5. I have recently taken on the challenge of reading House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. My roommate introduced me to this book recently. If you have never heard of it, please check it out. I can only hope my mind and soul are strong enough to make it through the entire book.

6. I finished The Virgin Suicides, and was sort of disappointed overall. (Ah, now I know what my next post will be about.)

7. My novel-in-progress is also returning to the top of my priority list. I kick myself every day for letting my little period of darkness take a toll on my writing…but we can’t take these things back, can we?

8. One of my best friends gave birth to the most precious little boy, Joseph. I’ve never fallen in love with something so quickly (except maybe Joe…and frozen yogurt). He is surrounded by friends and family who all want a turn at cuddling him; so blessed.

9. I spent enough at Shop Rite to get my free Easter ham! Alright, so you’re not excited…but I am.

10. And here I am. Just me, the radio, and a Thursday afternoon.

Happy Spring!