————————————————-
My name is Nicole. I am not the same
rusty-kneed little girl with braid ends sealed
by fire who asked you how to reclaim
her dead mother through words, how to reveal

her shining little girl memories of
the woman before junk rotted her
away from the inside out, how to shove
the pain out of her little heart and turn

it into a poetic scream – but I
have the same need: I want to remake,
reconstruct my father through words, and I
can do it now, thanks to you. I’m awake,

and I am here, and I will not wait for
someone else to rebuild him anymore.

I cannot ignore my early teachers:
Langston taught me how words are beautiful,
bountiful building blocks with features
of our own souls. Maya gave me vital

knowledge of rhythm and rhyme, and taught me
how to beat poetically in time
with one of myriad rhythms in the
ample, open, cosmos. Poe taught nighttime

and darkness to me, and how to embrace
them as I would embrace light. I cannot
ignore my songwriter teachers – their place
in my lessons are unique. Reznor taught

me the language of screams, and Stipe taught me
the language of lyrical mystery.

But Ms. Smith, you helped me remember what
I wanted to reconstruct most – my dad:
his smokestack and seaside Jersey laugh, the
way he could rip apart an engine, add

more spare parts, and rebuild it into a
work of art; the blacks, grays, and purples that
he penciled his whole wardrobe in; and the
good times with him, before the darkness that

overshadowed our family, before he went
away forever. I can reconstruct
him and never lose him again, cement
him in words that will never die, destruct,

or fade away. Thank you, Ms. Smith; I can
now rebuild the memory of a man.

Written 7/2/08
© 2008 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

Stumble It!

-Nicole
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You want this. You want this secret burning
connection as badly as I do. In
the stairwell we dampen this shared yearning
with looks saturated with words, unspoken –

we don’t dare raise our voices, even to
share a whisper. But still, you want this. No
matter how much you fret and complain, you
can’t deny your desire, doctor – so

just give up. You want this. You know it. I
am a nurse, a caretaker – I can sense
the pain in hidden dark corners, denied.
Our clandestine telephone parlances

and this roll of film with photos of us
prove me right. Confess your love – stop this madness.

Written 6/26/08
© 2008 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

Stumble It!