Nicelle Davis

 
Latchkey

The waterfall is frozen in place. Breath exhales
into small storms, interrupting stillness. Deer leave
their small hot pellets in snow before disappearing
into dry brush curved into a shelter.

It’s quiet,

except for thaws near the soft flesh of ground. Barbwire
along property lines is easy to step over with new heights
of fresh powder laddering against edges.

It’s possible to believe in a cold and distant god,
sun reflecting off beads of water.

Nature doesn’t care about you yet holds you at center. You

stole a handful of grapes from your friend’s kitchen
before wandering slowly home. The green skin of
some foreign summer breaks between your teeth.

No one asked where you would be,
and you didn’t tell anyone you were going

There is a Song Sung Below Us

In the shadow of trees there is an implied depth,
a door in the floor with a dark stairwell leading
into a cellar. Here lives the god of the ground,
with a face like a frog and breath that can bring
back the dead. In a flood, even the living can
see her. Drought is a form of drowning. Sweat
pools. She uses these sweet reductions to can
summer peaches. Her name is translated to egg.
When she walks. you hear the jangling of keys.
Her name translates to willing. Dogs accompany
her through the damp shelves of storage. Here
is a place you will never go hungry. She hums
a song you wish your grandmother would have
taught you. You know it like you know your
own birthing. When you hear it you can’t help
but cry until the river surges and covers you.

Nicelle Davis is a California poet, collaborator, and performance artist. Her poetry collections include The Language of Fractions, The Walled Wife, In the Circus of You, Becoming Judas, and Circe. She teaches at High Desert Middle School. website

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