REM Stage 6: A Poetry Blog || julie niklas

06/17/2010, 3:38 PM
Filed under: Poetry | Tags: , , , ,

In the night, with the infection of birth
still glowing in her arms rampant like a
weed under cotton pillows, she recalls
pulling violets from the front lawn and
weaving gossamer bracelets for the
moths with her fingers wrapped around
precarious creases in stems, the purple
of the petals coming undone in her
lifelines, she recalls a garden floating like
an ark to the shore of the galaxy, sails
of gristle-wood soaked in rain like a nightgown.

Lightning is her blood. She has
wondered about storms all her life and
why the rain felt so electric
in her dreams, in her toddlerbones.

Ten years too late, she finds solace in
thrashing rain, in cold water squeezing its
hands around her waist through cotton sheets,
sliding its calf muscles across the sides of her knees.
Solace in memory. Stained glass fragments.
Flowerbed in the windowsill. Aches.
growing pains plunging deep into shins. She is learning
to count the seconds between light and
sound, between sleep and
dreams, before the echoes of thunder
have reached the roots of her
childhood and shaken windows with
curtains drawn closed-eye and black.

An empty street never looked so grey
or wet or rang with the cracks of an old
storm like the ones in the folds of her
blankets. There had never been this
many pansies at her feet. And violets she
had called them. Violets, not pansies.


An Elegy for Yesterday (National Poetry Month Day 12)
04/12/2010, 8:48 PM
Filed under: Poetry | Tags: , , ,

We used to believe in shooting stars,
in 4am meteor showers thick as down
blankets and clouds that we could
bathe in, rinse the wishes from our
shoulder blades with and stir
into a tub as points of light poured from
the old nickel-coated bath tap.

We used to believe in Mr. Moon,
that when we heard thunder it was
him playing the drums, calling his symphony
to arms in the darkness with
a neon flare and a crash and a loud whooping
song as rain spilled over our lawns.

We used to believe that the sun was
like a cork, a bright plug in the world
that popped open each night and let glassful
after glassful of cranberry wine that
tasted like night fill the bottle, we believed it
was gone by morning because
there was a party.

We used to believe in dragons and superheroes
and the velveteen rabbit, in myth that
once grew sweet and ripe on our
branches but now is plump and
withered, soft like a tomato that was left
in the windowsill overnight.