Rebirth

I am transitioning. 

 

motherhood: 

 

milk-coated moments 

soft, opaque, all love and light. 

 

smoke-filled lungs

choking on small scenes 

wading blindly

 

I started small.

 

one additional heart 

five years, holding his 

small, sturdy body in my arms

feeling it bloom, all limbs. 

 

his hands, still new, only larger now. 

he rests them on my growing belly

his brother

 

his small mouth talks of protection. 

 

I hold him as I always have

with my whole self

days, minutes, hours before

I split myself in two.

yesterday I wanted flowers

[https://photos.com/featured/multicolored-tulips-bob-pool.html]

yesterday i wanted flowers

(such a small, insignificant thing)

 

weeks ago I’d have quickly ran the 

water at the kitchen sink 

 

forgotten to trim the stems 

 

crowded too many into the glass vase

 

poured in the drops of vodka that

promise to keep them fresh

 

placed them off center on the kitchen table

and went about my day.

 

but now 

 

now I’d document the hue of every petal.

 

I want tulips – 

 

sky-burnt orange 

(I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wake with the sun)

 

the hastiness of red

(we haven’t ran far enough for our cheeks to turn)

 

the authenticity of purples, blues, pinks – 

 

I’d lay their sweet heads 

on the countertop

 

carefully trim their green feet 

 

reach for the second vase 

(distance is key now)

 

carefully position each one

(watch their delicate necks)

 

and then I’d watch them bloom.

 

I’d catch each one as it

stretched out it’s bright arms

and dropped each precious petal

 

because time

is the smallest, 

insignificant of things.

Rituals

Enter a caption

the day is a series of catchphrases

 

the sun rises and falls 

 

casts the same judging glare 

through her living room window

 

she’s forgotten what the air feels like

when it catches and holds in her throat

like all of the words she’d tossed into 

a jar before she dared to try them on for size

 

somewhere her daughter 

cries in unpredictable patterns 

quiet, loud, a siren’s wail

 

barely breathing but never more alive

 

life thrums at the edges of her doorstep

 

she counts the crows huddled 

along the power lines

and steps back inside

poetry

(http://menoevil.deviantart.com/art/Whispering-wind-379336368)

 

you ask how I’m managing

but you cut your ears off

 

years ago

 

fingers smooth as

tree bark touch my wrist

 

there are daisies where your

eyes should be

 

you’re all I write about –

did you know this?

 

don’t be flattered

 

it’s easier to

write about misery

than it is to

write about love

 

to write about love

is to try slowing the

beating of your heart

to match the pace of your fingers

 

like holding a moth

in cupped hands

Looking Back…

Hi!!! ::wipes dust off of blog::

I hope everyone is well. I’ve been writing, writing, writing…but secretly. I am trying hard for a chapbook, have been lucky enough to read at TWO poetry events in the last few months, and have also had two pieces accepted by publications (both forthcoming). I am feeling very creatively blessed at the moment, and am so excited to share those poems with you when they are released.

I’m stopping in to share a piece (I was fortunate enough to have Freshly Pressed) I wrote back when I was big and happy and very pregnant. My son will be two this Friday, and I am a big ball of emotion right now. What a whirlwind it’s been since he entered our lives. I couldn’t ask for a better life. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I am proud to be his mama.

 

Here’s a link to that piece I wrote before I got to meet that precious boy: a poet to her son

Wishing you all well.

 

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

did she (part III)

(http://www.diskursdisko.de/2010/08/jakob-wagner-vertical-woods/)

 

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

.

 

I think he’d even ask for you

(http://www.demilked.com/surreal-mississippi-south-photography-iphone-melissa-vincent/)

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. 

 

 

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.

 

I call him love

(http://www.leisuremartini.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/lov.jpg)

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.

 

 

 

all that we cannot change

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

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,

always.

 

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.