Odysseus does not come to bed. He spends his nights looking at jars; gestures of a hand job from a topless siren. The image poorly drawn, her fingers resemble weapons. He will sleep when we rise. I’ve learned to treasure
Circe Wakes as Herself after Being Penelope
There is never enough time to teach the art of return. Home is the lie that never stops telling stories. Once upon a time there were three sisters. Sirens who tried to love everything they were not. They failed and
Animated Excerpts from Circe
Nicelle Davis lives in Southern California with her son J.J. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Broadsided, Front Range, FuseLit, Mosaic, ML Press, The New York Quarterly, Offending Adam, SLAB Magazine, SLAB, Two Review, and others. She’d like
A Real Goner
This is how you will go. Without applause. With a bump here and there. In relaxed turbulence. By finding meaning in a small thing which you weren’t aware of when it happened, and which you will forget a second later.
excerpts from All the Colors of the Dark
For the past few years, I’ve been composing collages based on typographic forms; prior to this, my work had consisted primarily of surreal, dreamlike narratives and were purely figurative compositions. I have always, however, loved creating abstract work as well,
Real, Not Fake
When I was diagnosed with inoperable cancer, my first thought wasn’t what you might expect. My first thought wasn’t “Why me?” My first thought was “Why not you?” This is a serious thought, I think, a logical thought, and not
Home Videos Don’t Lie
Within an hour of meeting Thelma’s mother, the VCR is humming. Thelma gathers bedding, curls herself on the couch. I sit in between her and her mom. Thelma warned me about mom’s home video infatuation. I’ve come to realize that
I Built a Fifth House
I built a fifth house near the river. I placed my head under its water and drank. I was a deer again, as my brother and I had been when we were young, hooking antlers, lowering our necks. My brother
My House is Filled with Flowers. The Walls are Bare.
These things are true and sad. A painter used to live here. Lives here still but it is complicated. Tonight I am alone but for the flowers the painter left for me to discover in the kitchen, the living room,
Blackmail Fantasy
On Thursday, I take a train to a town with a gas station and one stoplight. Wear a black coat and dream all night about wolves skirting the parking lots. My hope is a single bright balloon caught in January