By Nicole Brickman
"One final, faint “Farewell”- so weak it scarcely reached his ears- was all she said.
--Ovid's Metamorphases, Book X
1.
We sit in silence over greasy eggs
and solitude, you hold me tight
with one finger underneath the table.
Distance grows before union begins.
A waitress bustles by, More coffee, sir?
splashing hot liquid on the white saucer
I examine the finite pattern,
folding into myself, fetal.
A mere thread of connection before
the fall—brief flash of sweet
upturned face, tumbling back into
the void of unknowing (who am I to you?)
Now we do not need an oracle.
The coffee is cold—an ending before we begin.
2.
I am snow and clean paper,
a girl on the verge-
created, always created, never becoming.
Who am I to you, poet?
A gentle conceit, leitmotif of the ages
(but I am just a girl) veiled-
readied by ritual, ceremonial bath,
symbolic captive of these wedding rites,
a loose echo of what I might be
one day, could still be
frozen at the barrier’s edge,
this dark mouth—then flung
down, falling further than light years
one solemn kiss still lingers on your lips
3.
In some small diner, you may find me
scratching words on paper—writing
myself into history, the way you never could
(Oh sing your tender lullaby of death)
I prefer my private hell to thin
threads of intimacy, held fast
by false honor and custom,
the wisp of smoke from your cigarette.
I am under your skin, under
your tree, lying under and underlining
your every word. Still you don’t grasp
with both hands (who am I to you?)
the wind and the roots, the tether
holding you, tearing you apart.
Nicole Brickman lives in Columbus, Ohio, where she teaches her middle school students to love reading and writing. She has a BA in Education/English from Hunter College in New York City and an MA in Literature from the University of Connecticut. She has been published in the Long River Review. In her spare time (which is limited), she enjoys spending time with her husband Jeff, her dog Kira and her cat Jim. She is expecting her first child in May.
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