The Deja Vu of Ms. Parrot
“My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on the limb
And all I remember is thinking I want to be like them…”
–Gnarls Barkley, Crazy
I have been here before. A translucent beauty so blue that the eye upon it is now rhythm and gold, the meat and sultry pupil on this dock, where I shall lay. And the goose carrying a bonnet to the new parents downstairs, 3am nesting for Joe Jack and Jill . I have been here before, a stage of the puppets unwary of the thin rope that travels through to the sky. And in the sky, where your god is good and my god is good, there is a good walnut marked with a dichotomous forest of your green. Winter’s green, and the green of a frenzied Earth , and an Earthly hood so close to where? Oh, I’ve been here before. A translucent ugly that mulches by the river’s nail beds and the soggy black tarps. Mold creeps from the village inside , within is every broken union with oneself and the other outer self. I have been here before , walnut veined in a bumpy paralysis and I am the last to have moved. Nothing is being built. Nothing is being built. Nothing was being built. Nothing was destroyed and to that matter maybe the helplessness of being born is the same as being so close to total exhaustion and asphyxiation to the mimicking world. A man plays piano and the orange balmy glow sets the tendons on fire. I have been here, in the room where the man sighs and thoughtfully constructs the bourbon on his tongue, as if to not miss the pleasure of physical intimacy , as he knows the grand gesture of music is so divinely fragile — if I have been here than surely you have too, and if you have and have done right, there is not one thing you have ever done wrong, in the animalistic nurture of human and her splendor
His glass teeth kiss me /
out from the blackberry winter & glazing
my autumn eyes.
Tears jerk me further
into the arousal of nature /
that delicate horizon line where life
is the entire reason for death.
legs awake / tall like run.
Some place where grief is painted
on a briefly blooming face /
some place where quiet shakes.
My hand pulls the brevity of a corpse /
Spring flowers the nude lilacs
in memory of the sea, where we go to /
undress our people / 22 watersongs /
all written in blue.
Nicole F. Kimball is a proud Piscean and dog lover. She enjoys spending time with her husband and family, and has a strong background in violin and piano performance. She is published or forthcoming in 12 Mile Review, Sunspot Literary Journal, Sky Island Journal, Mom Egg Review, and several others. Nicole is an avid writer and reader, and is an aspiring editor and author.