UAB Digital Commons (Univ. of Alabama at Birmingham)

Thompson, Lynne

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 04 Article 18 
2004 
Marriage, A Fugue 
Lynne Thompson 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Thompson, Lynne (2004) "Marriage, A Fugue," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 04, Article 18. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol04/iss2004/18 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Lynne Thompson 
MARRIAGE, A FUGUE 
Which naked body is yours? You were salt at breakfast but by cocktails, 
your asters were in bloom. The length of your spine may bow for a cello 
but still I would know that you are betrayal. I'm lost as a girl but hallowed 
be my ova, hallowed be my tongue, hallowed be the soles of my feet but 
halleluiah, you're sure a stranger. Call me when the cycle's over. 
25 -


English

Marriage, A Fugue

Duhamel, Denise

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 04 Article 30 
2004 
Self-Potrait in Phyming Slang 
Denise Duhamel 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Duhamel, Denise (2004) "Self-Potrait in Phyming Slang," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 04, 
Article 30. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol04/iss2004/30 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Denise Duhamel 
SELF-PORTRAIT IN RHYMING SLANG 
I'm artsy-fartsy, ac/ de, always slumped in front of the 
boob tube. I'm the bee's knees. I'm a bag with a sag. I'm a 
culture vulture with a cheat sheet, a chopper-copper, a 
double trouble dizzy Lizzy. I'm date bait, a dead-head, an 
eager beaver who likes things even-Steven. I'm a 
fat cat fag hag playing footsie wootsie with a fancy-nancy 
glad lad. We're a gruesome twosome going to a function at Tuxedo Junction. I'm a 
hootchie kootchie who's paid a handsome ransom. 
I'm alive 'cause I dig the 
jive. I've been known to smoke a 
killer diller kick stick with a 
lame-brain legal-eagle lane from Spokane. I'm loose as a goose. I have a 
mop-chop. My best friends are twins, Mike and Ike. Though I'm full of mojo, I'm a 
no-go nitwit. A nitty gritty no-show. I'm a 
okey-dokey ooly drolly 
piggy-wiggy. I'm a peek freak who spies on my passion ration. I'm a teen 
queen with a 
rootin'-tootin' rabbit habit. I'm rum-dum, 
sake-happy, skirty-flirty. I'm a square from Delaware, a silly billy who likes a good 
thriller-diller. I'm a tootsie-wootsie who talks 
ubble-gubble. I'm a 
virgin-shmirgin with VD. I'm a 
wheeler-dealer keeping up with white flight on my walkie-talkie. I'm an 
ex-hexed Tex-Mex 
yuk-yuk of a yo-yo. 
Zodiac-schmodiac! You'll recognize me by my zoot snoot. 
38 
• 


Self-Potrait in Phyming Slang

Sanchez, Sonia

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 04 Article 37 
2004 
He/She 
Sonia Sanchez 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Sanchez, Sonia (2004) "He/She," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 04, Article 37. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol04/iss2004/37 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Sonia Sanchez 
HE/SHE 
She. ferocious 
with flesh. 
He. amputated 
at birth. 
She adored him 
in spite of 
her blood 
ricocheting 
off her knees 
floors. Kitchen. 
She cried until 
the morning descended 
on her. She 
stooped into his 
arms where he 
grabbed her 
between kisses 
pretending 
he didn't do it 
didn't mean to do it 
wouldn't do it again ... 
No debutante 
eyes here. 
No delicate 
strands of hair 
here. Just wild 
sweet strands 
rising in 
magnificent 
flight. 
No. him. sweetening 
up the air. here. 
Just an urban-city 
musical about 
family 
47 
• 
fading into 
autopsies. 
Maybe she thought 
after she rubbed 
the welts. She 
thought maybe this pain 
he painted on her body 
was his Art 
his celebration 
of self. 
Maybe he thought 
after he had come 
inside her three times 
and he was too soft 
to receive fur ther adoration. 
maybe he went out 
to find music where 
maybe the agony of being 
Black. Latino. White. Asian. 
would not quarantine him. 
She remembered that day 
which was like no other 
throbbing like youth 
but older than young 
high-stepping assassins. 
She noticed the hairs 
growing out of his nostrils 
measured the spit capped between 
his teeth. 
saw his eyes shifting 
in purgatory. 
He had traveled all 
night and morning in 
community creases of anger. 
He replayed the night 
jokes about yo mama his mama 
other oiled bitches 
perfumed in paradise. 
Don't get me wrong 
he said, I love the 
smell of cunts. 
48 
• 
Catacombs of blood 
and lies. 
Imagine. 
The shiver of death. 
Imagine. 
finally the absence 
of pain escaping her skin. 
Imagine. 
Holding one eye 
in her hand 
only the TV 
breathing news. 
Imagine. 
Her prayers landing 
on the ceiling. 
I am sorry he says I am 
sorry he says I am sorry 
he says forgive me he says 
forgive me he says forgive me 
he says he says he says 
and he holds her close. 
As she closes her one good eye 
she discovers she is humming 
blood clots 
or is she running 
head still on her shoulders 
other eye in her closed hand. 
She tastes the slow 
arrival of God. 
What presents does He bring? 
What does He know? 
About One woman. 
One man. 
Alone. 
Faces. 
Spellbound .... 
49 
• 


He/She

Langan, Kerry

Reservoir

Nelle 
Volume 7 Article 12 
2024 
When I Think of the Future 
Denise Duhamel 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Duhamel, Denise (2024) "When I Think of the Future," Nelle: Vol. 7, Article 12. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle/vol7/iss2024/12 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
14
Nelle
Denise Duhamel
when i think of the future
I think of foraging, excessive heat, no A/C.
Then I think of a rosy retirement, a trip
to France or dancing at my grandnephew’s
wedding. I think of drowning
with my neighbors, all of us at once,
in a climate disaster. Or very much alone
in a state-run nursing home. 
Then I don’t think of dying but rather
writing a poem so sublime
it winds up in a fat Norton anthology.
Hope is instinctive. It pops up
when I am most down. Unlike Apollinaire, 
I have no shrapnel in my temple. 
I have never been to what we agree upon 
as war. I have felt politics from afar—
protests, marches, angry letters to lawmakers. 
I have felt politics up close as I live 
in a woman’s body. I have sometimes kept quiet 
Because there are so many things I don’t dare tell you
So many things you wouldn’t let me tell you
When I think of the future I cover my eyes.


When I Think of the Future

Fleury, Amy

Nelle 
Volume 7 Article 17 
2024 
To a Mother, Long Bereaved 
Amy Fleury 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Fleury, Amy (2024) "To a Mother, Long Bereaved," Nelle: Vol. 7, Article 17. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle/vol7/iss2024/17 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
20
Nelle
Amy Fleury
to A mother, long BereAved
In the early days it wasn’t that you wished 
 to die exactly. You just did not want
  to be alive. You learned
to carry your self like a balloon on a string
 tied loosely, always about to slip
  from your wrist.
Those small clothes once folded with care
 have gone limp in your hands,
  their scent long sniffed out.
Some days a song will demolish you
 as you stand in the produce section
  palming a perfect peach.
Other people may not notice the wobble
 and catch of your voice
  when you are assailed 
by a gauzy remembering of those toes
 you pretended to nibble, fingers
  kissed each in their turn.
Some nights there are still visitations
 in the form of syrupy dreams
  that sweetly cling.
21
Nelle
When you wake it is like the opposite
 of a miracle, your child again dead.
  It is no wonder that eve
 
 is in grieve. To mother is to mourn. Still
 there are whelms of pain, sometimes
  tidal, sometimes bestial,
but mostly the soft throb of an old wound,
 the cherished scar you touch
  to be sure of who you are.


To a Mother, Long Bereaved

Ginsburg, Melissa

Nelle 
Volume 7 Article 18 
2024 
before she lost the use of her hands 
Melissa Ginsburg 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Ginsburg, Melissa (2024) "before she lost the use of her hands," Nelle: Vol. 7, Article 18. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle/vol7/iss2024/18 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
22
Nelle
Melissa Ginsburg
Before she lost the use of her hAnds
under an exhibition poster from the art museum 
 depicting a botanical study of bromeliads 
tacked to the corkboard  above the floral
 wallpaper border   in the kitchen
before they sold  that teardown 
 before developers razed the house 
  felled trees ground stumps   
 started from scratch with cheap materials 
before the diagnosis
and the years  in the kitchen 
 under the poster  before her fingers 
went numb before flesh  swelled into her rings
 there curled in the kitchen the phone’s long cord
she talked for hours   long distance
 to her sisters and her mother 
before the lost   years and hands 
in the kitchen    long distance 
 she tangled her hands   in the cord
before she lost 
 her sister and her mother 
before she lost the poster she talked
with her hands
  she twisted her rings 
drew grand pianos in the margins
23
Nelle
of electric bills   drew blooms 
 of daisies all the winters of that house
we hauled bromeliads inside   varietals
 cupping the cold 
in a mild freeze we covered them
  with sheets  the poster when it tore
left a dark cork rectangle 
 to correct  our memories
 we covered them with sheets
long distance is  how houses become ghosts 
 tangled floral border   tunneling the wrists
nerve damage irreparable hours of pianos 


before she lost the use of her hands

Nelle 
Volume 7 Article 20 
2024 
camera obscura 
Melissa Ginsburg 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Ginsburg, Melissa (2024) "camera obscura," Nelle: Vol. 7, Article 20. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle/vol7/iss2024/20 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
25
Nelle
Melissa Ginsburg
cAmerA oBscurA
After watching the funeral on facebook I pour a glass of 
box wine on ice. What we’d be drinking if we were 
together, the women who are left. Checked twitter during 
the hymns. Checked the news. Bowed out of the socially 
distanced bulb planting party. Will wait for the spring if 
the spring comes. If seasons are still cyclical. Unlikely 
daffodils. Grief is an aperture closing to a pinprick, 
focusing what little light is left. A pinhole camera shrinks 
the world and turns it upside down. Alone in this box I 
notice my mother. She’s been standing in the corner, 
waiting for the picture to hit the back wall. Counting on 
the principle that a hole can be a lens. relying on light to 
travel in lines. We abide by the rules of our cardboard 
house and wait for my dead aunt to appear.


camera obscura

Rasmus, Greta

Nelle (literary magazine) 
Volume 7 Article 41 
2024 
Joy 
Greta Rasmus 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Rasmus, Greta (2024) "Joy," Nelle (literary magazine): Vol. 7, Article 41. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle/vol7/iss2024/41 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
52
Nelle
Greta Rasmus
Joy
I called it the last 
chance; called it fake 
IDs and fucking 
on molly; a fingertip’s path 
upon an elbow, a stranger’s 
breath in an eardrum; called it booty 
call; called it after 
party at the pink house 
where I pressed my 
face into someone’s 
sheets before walking home 
in the morning 
dark. I called it whiskey 
shits and beer 
tears; called it normal; 
called it just 
for now; called it better 
in 5 years; called it browning 
out; but had I ever kissed 
hips on a sofa 
in Texas with the bones 
of someone who knew my 
bones, as the forgiving 
winter light bent its body 
under the window frame and over 
the window sill and waltzed 
with a wall 
I painted once 
with you?


Rathburn, Chelsea

Nelle (literary magazine) 
Volume 7 Article 43 
2024 
My Home in Georgia 
Chelsea Rathburn 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Rathburn, Chelsea (2024) "My Home in Georgia," Nelle (literary magazine): Vol. 7, Article 43. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/nelle/vol7/iss2024/43 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Nelle
Chelsea Rathburn
my home in georgiA
In the blurred months after the birth, the pair of us locked 
in an unbreakable embrace, I rocked 
and soothed and hummed, and still my daughter screamed 
into my face, unless she nursed or dreamed,
or I played “(Sittin’ on) the Dock of the Bay.”
I swear, she’d freeze red-faced at the lapping waves
and the first chords, then Otis Redding’s timeless
tender voice. Again and again, I’d play it,
in her room, in the car, all across Georgia,
and not only because it paused her cries.
I played it and felt that I’d been recognized. 
I don’t know what my baby listened for—
perhaps the swelling horns, the tide, or how
his words rolled out and in, the changed refrain—
but for me it was the mix of beauty and pain
in Redding’s voice, at once joyous and wistful.
I listened and remembered, then and now, 
that any cry could be turned into a whistle. 
54


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