a photograph
(on a beach, from above)
Spanish lessons
(Hola, Mr. Vaca.)
antibiotics
vows
your temperature
(but you're not even warm)
your child's temperature
(but she's not even born)
hot baths
a train headed south
your own sweet time
(if you wish;
I wish.)
anything, really
you can take anything, really
(but it might hurt)
oh, it'll hurt--you can bet your big ole heart that it'll hurt--but hurt goes away,
or doesn't go away, turns into something else entirely:
the music downstairs, a half-remembered dream,
a hand that finally unfolds, opens, reaches to find what it might take next.
1 comment:
So I don't think I can overstate how excited I am about your blog. Now I can stop by for a dose of Nicole whenever I like, wooopeeeeeeee!
"your temperature / (but you're not even warm) / your child's temperature / (but she's not even born)"
I love that especially. Thanks for posting the above; I'm glad I had the chance to read it.
By the by, I absolutely insist that the next time I see you, you are carrying a chapbook of yours that I can purchase and devour.
In the meantime, I think I'm going to go (whispers) write some more poetry. Just please don't tell anyone; I have a reputation to keep.
Love,
Miriam
P.S. Confessions of a true stalker: I read several of your previous entries and am now considering the possibility of retroactive commenting...
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