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
Elena Nola, Poet 