NELLE 9 | 2026
I give her tenderness, too much:
paper marigolds, a sestina, three pianos, and soft jazz,
cup the enormity of her hurt with my small hands.
Mama.
I love her to an ache.
I love her from a bridge.
I love her as if she were my daughter.
Her voice is chorus composed of river and lullaby,
chanting my name, birthing each syllable
as flowers fragment in rain.
I sit proper, baby doll. She cuts my hair.
Asymmetrical bangs. I talk back.
Scissor mouth. We clash.
She loves me, loves me not.
Nothing. No one. Not even rain can rescue us.