A Man Who Calls Me Darlin’

I want a man who calls me darlin'
Whose roots touch mine 
Not the same soil, but the same shade
Close enough to drink from the same ground water

I want a man who has two hearts 
One for each of mine
Art and dirt, or roots and sky
Close enough to speak the same dialect of difference

I want a man who takes me dancing
Whose steps match mine 
Who lets me come and go in rhythm long developed
Close enough to flying to call it the same name

I want a man who calls me darlin'
-Elena Nola

Blue Moon

The moon rose yellow against a Confederate sky
Like some wasted sun, its core collapsed,
Anemic light a harbinger of change. 
But dying sun is brilliant moon;
It shone brighter than reflection,
A ring of white around its edge entire,
Almost a corona.
Almost like it burned.
~Elena Nola

Wings of Fire

Wings of fire
Let it burn, let it burn
Let it burn away what isn’t me

Walk through life
Let it burn

Walls ignite
Let it burn, let it burn
Let it burn away

Reality falls
Let it burn

That cage is gone
Let it burn, let it burn
Let it burn away what isn’t me
-Elena Nola, August 2021

Sicily

Perfume poem thirteen, Sicily by D and G.

Originally published in Conscious, the zine, 2018.

Summer smells of Sicily
Soap and sand and soft focus lens
Glimpses of the world through sighing gauze
The languid light of lingering sun
Below the horizon but still kissing the sky
Clinging to the blue with lover's loathing of farewell

And to the air a flower opens
Its swelling sweetness tension in the dusk
A breath of life renewed with day's decline
Too gentle to compete with harshest heat
But counting down the rays till soft can shine

Perfect moment plucked from time
Like ripened fruit still warm to touch 
Awaiting what comes next 
While yet complete within itself
The stillness between two memories
Perhaps the strongest note of all

When the deluge falls

It's been so long I've wondered
Would I even recognize the rain?
But the signs are unmistakable
And waken primal knowings.
Pores open up like plants
The scales of our hair sip moisture
And stand tall in attention
Our noses know the smell of rain
Ears can't unremember thunder
Our skin flinches with the electric shock
As lightning scalds the sky
The sucking void of warring winds
Winds the breath up in the chest
The tactile call and response
Between barometric change and body 
Forms precious proof that what's forgotten isn't gone
It's merely biding till the time
And when the deluge finally falls
You can't remember
That you did not remember
-Elena Nola

900 nights

One hundred fifty nights ago
I counted the time between,
The week the star-tellers told me to;
The answer, then, was 750.
They warned me not to count again.
I should have listened,
Because now I know
900 nights have come and gone
Since last I felt the rain, 
And though I'm drowning in the numbers,
There is no water here.
-Elena Nola

Perhaps

I want to matter most to someone
She confessed
Shyly and a little sadly

All I could do was
Tell that lost little girl
Inside myself

You matter most to me
Perhaps, someday,
It will even be enough
-Elena Nola