by Nicole Jacobsen
His living room is a vivarium
full of filtered sunshine
gasping through storm clouds,
releasing rain that trembles
puddles on cement, warping sky.
Water circles clutch glass
like suctioned starfish, we kiss
as he passes. I scratch poetry
between blue lines, deliberating
the nucleus of a syllable.
Menthol breeze ripples
my arms and small hairs, raising
bubble wrap skin. Synaesthesia insists
his footsteps are pine.
I’m fine here, while he works, watching peace
lilies animate on the table,
my body creaking
like a new home beginning to settle.
Nicole Jacobsen is a Brisbane artist, writer, poet, and aspiring editor who regularly finds herself re-befuddled by the difference between who and whom. Her background in Psychology emerges through character studies, obsessive bouts of self-reflection, and recurrent themes of mental health in her work.
Seeking words with sizzle, poetry that wraps us in burning ribbons and won't let go. Send us your best!