Helen Speaks
by Nikki Ummel
Outside is brushing against the windows. I listen for human rustling from beyond the stern
oak doors you erected to protect me. There lies the afternoon, on the hearth, warming its
belly. My brain is bored and I am so stupid for you. I was once your celebration and now,
your penance, your broad hands like winter against stones. My father’s grief is many.
Those early days, you, feathered and flashing, me, cooing goofy. Language was an engine
we rode together, your voice outside my chambers bidding me come. I’ve sewn this poem
into my undies hoping you’ll peel them off and see yourself in me. let’s stack up a thousand
days together, brace the doors from battering rams. But this isn’t the poem you’ve chosen.
I desire morning as it will never come.
oak doors you erected to protect me. There lies the afternoon, on the hearth, warming its
belly. My brain is bored and I am so stupid for you. I was once your celebration and now,
your penance, your broad hands like winter against stones. My father’s grief is many.
Those early days, you, feathered and flashing, me, cooing goofy. Language was an engine
we rode together, your voice outside my chambers bidding me come. I’ve sewn this poem
into my undies hoping you’ll peel them off and see yourself in me. let’s stack up a thousand
days together, brace the doors from battering rams. But this isn’t the poem you’ve chosen.
I desire morning as it will never come.
Nikki Ummel is a queer artist and editor in New Orleans. Nikki has been published in Gulf Coast, The Georgia Review, and others. She is the 2022 recipient of the Leslie McGrath Poetry Prize. She has a poetry chapbook, Hush (Belle Point Press, 2022) and a hybrid chapbook, Bayou Sonata (NOLA DNA, 2023). You can find her on the web at www.nikkiummel.com. IG: NikkiUmmelWrites, Twitter: NikkiUmmel.