clasp cold hand
over cold hand
over mouth
fingers like
branches
search for the
telephone but they are
catching on all the edges
and we are
unraveling
unraveling
un
rav
el
ing
.
clasp cold hand
over cold hand
over mouth
fingers like
branches
search for the
telephone but they are
catching on all the edges
and we are
unraveling
unraveling
un
rav
el
ing
.
Filed under Uncategorized, Writing
a pink sun rises and her heart
beats in rhythm with the coffee that is
drip, drip, dripping in the kitchen.
she is warm, she is unknowing
still for minutes more, one foot
dangling casually from bed to floor.
someone puts the bacon on,
fat cracking fireworks from the stove
while news drones on from the television.
did she notice the birds
in their perfect V formation
ripping across a November sky?
slip the back door open just
a bit more, the dog, burly as she is
squeezes through and runs, runs, runs.
I’d guess they don’t look down,
from way up there it’s all just
noise anyway, it’s all the same
all the same.
Filed under Uncategorized, Writing
a toddler dizzy spinning on the
kitchen tile, yelling out to the abundance of
silence in the room, challenging with the sound of
his own excited voice he is a startling comedic relief
death is food: pies, cakes, donuts drowning
in sticky chocolate stuffed with velvet creams,
coffee sizzles nearby like a waking spouse
hoagie slices stacked in potent sculptures
death is love
family, friends, acquaintances even
hugging every wall and every worn cushion
thrown about the kitchen, living room, hallway
spilling over to the back porch, front porch
standing in doorways with hands in pockets, listening
death is a deep breath
pull it all in,
let it all out and
somewhere in the distance
a city is crumbling.
Filed under Uncategorized, Writing
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
Filed under Uncategorized, Writing
at night I unhinge
my bones in moonlight.
maybe I dance
a little
maybe I remember him
I have ritualized dear grandfather
into my agnostic bedtime prayers.
Grandmother says she’ll
sleep through Christmas,
sleep right into next year
holed up above the awkward
holiday wishes
up where he slept, too.
and how
how has nearly a year
snuck up as quickly as
death did?
I can still smell the
cigar on his breath
the way his chest
rose
and
fell
with that rusted laugh
always the
ain’t that a shame
it is,
grandfather.
It is.
Filed under Writing
my grandfather came to me yesterday
he was hiding in between the beats
of my son’s sweet cries
hello, hello, hello
quit counting breaths
quit weighing the strength of
his grip on your fingers
I am taking care of things.
I was a child once,
he says.
I am a child now, I think.
my son looks up and smiles at nothingness,
his hollow mouth is valley wide
I imagine my grandfather
whispering firm instructions:
be happy
be healthy
go easy on your mother
I kiss the sky and whisper back
hello, hello, hello
I miss you so.
Filed under Writing
it was mourning
in a quiet, orange sunrise
it was a warm mattress
with warm bodies,
central heating
snow dusted front porch,
coffee set to brew its heavy, familiar self,
a thing of happiness, twisted
when paired with death
6:39 and the animals
were asleep, I was asleep,
comfortable actually
funny how even the
paint on the walls
looks different now
Filed under Writing
The backseat of my
grandfather’s Lincoln
smelled of warm leather
always saltwater
even folded into his
sloping
Mayfair driveway.
Two weeks of
washing with generic
soap bars
and his skin still
made me think of
hard work, cedar,
sandpaper.
The name inked
on his shoulder
his own
drooped and faded
quietly like the
sea memories
of a sailor.
They packed away
the soap and
I rolled up the
windows in the
Lincoln so I wouldn’t
forget
what summer was like.
I curve my hands
now
around the steering
wheel,
around his shoulders,
I press my forehead
to his happiness.
Filed under Writing
With aging photos, phone calls planning dinner,
with the same story of the same diner pancakes
on countless Sundays that you never finished, but
were allowed to order anyway.
With your great aunt in the hospital hallway
being selfish as usual, with your father in the
hospital hallway with circles under his eyes
the size of dinner plates, dirt in the brim of
his baseball cap, sipping coffee and watching
his father die.
You grieve him with the counting of his breath
like the anticipation between lightning and thunder,
with laughter you managed to scrape from the very
bottom of your lungs.
With yoga, with a glass of milk, with quick,
quiet crying in the cereal aisle of the supermarket.
You line up sympathy cards like paper trinkets
on the mantel, and you grieve because they grieve for you.
You grieve without sadness too, the first time you’re able
to say you lost him without hunching your shoulders.
With every look at your rounding belly,
the shape of some new world without him in it
except he is, in the still unknown face of your son.
Over coffee, over breakfast, over a good book,
watching your favorite television show, paying
for an ice cream, kissing your husband goodnight,
brushing your hair.
You grieve him in any way, in every way, in light and dark,
your grandfather.
Filed under Writing
You left us quietly,
an open window, a love note, a door ajar.
Mother called and I was already waking
from a half-sleep, when she said it I tried to
keep from biting down on the bathroom tile.
I won’t know how long it took you
but it was
two minutes
for my hair to all turn gray,
my bones to turn to ash in the sheets,
my husband to sift through the mess and find me,
pull me close.
I curled like paper to a flame,
tied a silk ribbon around my lungs and
tried my best to keep the night quiet.
I was searching the ceiling expecting to see you there
like some death novel, a holy farewell before
you were smoked out like a criminal.
In the hospital I held your face
like an heirloom.
You kissed my cheek
like I’d done good and I felt
me grow a little older.
I am wearing at my fingers
like skipping stones from our mountain days
so I won’t forget
how your skin felt in my hands
with life still behind it.
I’ll keep busy,
learning to tie knots in my heart
to fill the void,
to keep from aging.
Promise me
you’ll pour a glass and
open the curtain
from time to time
if only to check,
if only to whisper hello
with a smile.
Filed under Writing
Motherhood Misadventures + Creative Living
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