REM Stage 6: A Poetry Blog || julie niklas


Azalea
11/15/2009, 7:57 PM
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

She emerges from the covers
like a bloom, dripping in
morning breath and dewsweat
from a sleepless night, peels the
blankets down. She is a petal,
frail, pink-thin at the edges,
translucent when she passes by
the window, stops to pull her fibers
apart before she falls from the
stem. It is Sunday, noon,
and she has just woken up,
bleary eyed to snowed-in houses
and not a footstep in sight.
It’s the time of year when
nobody leaves their flowerbed
nobody faces the sun and
everybody wilts near a fireplace.
She pours hot milk, curls up in
the windowseat with the intimate
brew steaming in a blue
cup by her breast and watches
the snow, detached from her roots.

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Dollface
11/12/2009, 1:46 PM
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Lips parted,
some
but just enough more so
people wouldn’t say
slightly;
broken in the middle like
the split trunk of an oak
she carries them pressed
against her face
peeling at the corners because
she is dry and
windblistered.
Eyes blue,
not
the blue that goes with blue—
the blue that
goes with gray;
weighing on her
from the sockets down like
river rock
embedded in her skin
she rubs them down
smearing them
into her cheeks.



Daddy
07/26/2009, 11:26 PM
Filed under: Poetry, Writing | Tags: , , , , ,

It’s a first draft, to be revised at some point, but here’s what I have for now.

She is indignant. “I can
do it myself.” But he offers his hand
anyways,
and she takes it,
anyways, and stretches her leg up the stoop,
the pink ribbons in her hair bouncing,
one hand out for balance, the other secure in
Daddy’s grasp. When she reaches the top
she smiles up at him
and bobbles in the door, which he
holds open.
In ten years he will offer to drive
her to a friend’s before she’s even
reached for her keys, but she will say, “I can
do it myself,” and leave him there
with just that, the grinding jingle of
the keys she’s holding the way
he used to hold her hand, and the springloaded double-slam
of the screen door. The sound of the
engine will float to the ceiling like
a noodle in boiling water until long after
she has driven away, the only evidence
she spoke a word at all the pink
ribbon on her lips, now
split up the middle.