to lamotrigine, on our 1 year anniversary + Saint Paul, Unpublished Letter, Recipient Unknown
by Nikki Ummel
to lamotrigine, on our 1 year anniversary
slice the apple into quadrants and
never let them touch again. one piece
for the doves, so much coo against
the window, i almost cannot stand it.
there is big hum air here, there is.
swallow. lull about in sweatered silence.
wake and peel the apple without breaking,
leave the skin for the robins, red smears
against wet light. what is all this for?
these unlike worlds inside me blink
outside my chicken-legged house.
i think i missed something
but i’m not sure what.
you keep me away
from language.
my poems sweep
the dog hair
outside. i want
to lay in grass that is
not mine.
Saint Paul, Unpublished Letter, Recipient Unknown I’ve tried to make this hole my cathedral. I must confess: I want to go back to being Saul. As if the scales never fell. The tremors continue their task. To unearth me. With every shake I remember my first shiver, the day I waited for my mother to return from market. I slipped on her wedding wrap, imagined my father rapturing me. I cried as I came. They say we become our fathers, but the way my mother’s hair licked her hips, the way she cupped my father’s gaze, I knew I wanted to be her. I had no choice but to embrace God, turn from flesh to all things glorious, cast off my mother and her cries. My little boy, she said when I left but I never identified that way. The tremors are back. For now, I sit on my left hand to force stillness, tell sweet Timothy I am merely in search of Isaac’s blessing. Truly I would enjoy Isaac’s hand. Under my upper thigh. Come here and kiss me he said to Jacob, his son. And I can almost taste Heaven’s wet mouth. It tastes like my father’s bath water.
never let them touch again. one piece
for the doves, so much coo against
the window, i almost cannot stand it.
there is big hum air here, there is.
swallow. lull about in sweatered silence.
wake and peel the apple without breaking,
leave the skin for the robins, red smears
against wet light. what is all this for?
these unlike worlds inside me blink
outside my chicken-legged house.
i think i missed something
but i’m not sure what.
you keep me away
from language.
my poems sweep
the dog hair
outside. i want
to lay in grass that is
not mine.
Saint Paul, Unpublished Letter, Recipient Unknown I’ve tried to make this hole my cathedral. I must confess: I want to go back to being Saul. As if the scales never fell. The tremors continue their task. To unearth me. With every shake I remember my first shiver, the day I waited for my mother to return from market. I slipped on her wedding wrap, imagined my father rapturing me. I cried as I came. They say we become our fathers, but the way my mother’s hair licked her hips, the way she cupped my father’s gaze, I knew I wanted to be her. I had no choice but to embrace God, turn from flesh to all things glorious, cast off my mother and her cries. My little boy, she said when I left but I never identified that way. The tremors are back. For now, I sit on my left hand to force stillness, tell sweet Timothy I am merely in search of Isaac’s blessing. Truly I would enjoy Isaac’s hand. Under my upper thigh. Come here and kiss me he said to Jacob, his son. And I can almost taste Heaven’s wet mouth. It tastes like my father’s bath water.
Nikki Ummel is a queer artist, editor, and educator in New Orleans. Nikki has been published or has work forthcoming with Gulf Coast, The Georgia Review, Black Lawrence Press, and others. She is the 2022 recipient of the Leslie McGrath Poetry Prize and 2023 recipient of the Juxtaprose Poetry Award for her manuscript, Bloom. Nikki is the co-founder of LMNL, an arts organization focused on readings, workshops, and residencies. She has two poetry chapbooks, Hush (Belle Point Press, 2022) and Bayou Sonata (NOLA DNA, 2023), funded by the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Foundation. You can find her on the web at www.nikkiummel.com