Poetry by Nicole F. Kimball

               ​Martin Cathrae CC



Alchemy 


My body makes braille
from stagnant ocean language. 
Once, twice, thrice, four--

the blackberry water teems in 
old death. I build a house 
beside the sinking ragweed. 

I live and live into summer. 
John Denver crackles like 
motes in the gritty pockets of

the background. John Denver 
sings. My stillborn becomes
milk in the ground--

worming, gold, lowly. I hold my 
ankles, my ankles are blue. Then
I reach past my date. Purple of freed

sorrowing and slim memory. The
thoughts rape my mind, seize; 
and then leave me with iron. I try 

to cure this disease. You--
the pale embers between richness
and wake.  





Miscarriage 


We watch as their skulls slap 
our surfaces, out from the banks
and into the barren heat. Maybe 

not formed yet; maybe just a lilac
eye going down like milk in the 
water. We cannot change the way

we grasp our children, they are 
only mortal for the second we 
see grief surrounding their tiny 

anatomy. We feel dirty; we feel 
connected to the filthy berried 
soil. What must it be that loves 
​
the sky more than us? More than 
our wet wet hips and honeyed 
tongues ready to catch their 

names? As if we are mortal too, 
to be taken out of Earth. As if we 
are never motherly enough to 
need our own mother.   ​

Nicole F. Kimball holds an A.S. Writing Studies, and is published in Sunspot Lit, Book of Matches, and Bear Creek Gazette; among others. She is a 23 year old Jewish poet, and loves her husband and Wheaten Terrier named Benny. She is a deep-thinking Pisces, and enjoys using her emotional sensitivity to be creative. Nicole plays the violin and piano. 

---