Illegitimate | Part I and II

Part I

You don’t belong
here, ever,
and leaving
fingerprints

on the doorjamb. How
did you get
in? Who lifted the
latch? Look,

nobody wants you
here. You
weren’t invited.
Better hide

that part of you
they hate, call
Polack, laugh at. No,
you can’t conceal

eyes, hair, skin. That’s
ok. They’ll say you
got them from
your other

grandpa. Let them.
Hide the part of
you that
reaches back,

digs for roots, water,
food, slice of
you that needs
sometimes dreams.

Better yet, kill
it. Bury it.
Forget it. Let it
disappear. What’s

fifty percent of
nothing? He gave
your name
away, to his

legitimate son. Change
yours. Then maybe
what’s left can
live. Not a whole

life, but a half
life, a quarter
life, a little wisp of
something like a

life. Better than no
life. Maybe. Better
for everyone?
Maybe. After

all, you wouldn’t
want to get caught
trespassing. Better
to pay the price

now: Just a half
life, please. Just
your birth name,
please. Just his

DNA, please. Just
a little death,
please. Leave your
blood on the

altar and no
footprints
as you
go.

Part II

you belong here
and leaving fingerprints
like miniature mazes
on the hallways of My
heart, every twist and
bend leading to

you, My home
and I, yours
here, darling, here
a place to rest your head
eyes, hair, skin, no need
to hide from Me

child, hide in Me
dump your sack of
broken bits, every sliver, slice,
on the dirt floor, let them
settle, sink, rot,
root and become

shoots, vines, leaves,
summer berries
undreamed dreams
words on pages of untold
stories, and a stone,
smooth, singing

against your palm
the song of your name
yours and no one else’s
resounding through your flesh
ringing through your veins
calling green up up up

yes, you belong here
fleet-footed, kicking up
dirt and grass, like
honeybees scattering new
beginnings beneath the
Living Tree, beneath

the Giving Tree
beloved, leave footprints
anywhere, everywhere
you go, you’re
home

© Nichole Q. Perreault

“I am noisy, full of the racket of my imperfections and passions, and the wide open wounds left by my sins. Full of my own emptiness. Yet, ruined as my house is, You live there!”

Thomas Merton

Illegitimate | Part III

If Geppetto carved a daughter,
would I have seen it sooner?
myself, all wood and paint and strings
wobbly kneed, naïve
chasing vodka and bad boys, just to feel alive

Photo by Vlad Hilitanu on Unsplash

Or was it to forget the
fear of suspended animation
like sandpaper chewing my bones
dangling dread of the non-living, undead
If I’m not real, what am I?

There’s surety in strings
the raw physics of a marionette
its law of consequences
predictable, unforgiving
perfect for mimicking life

But I never was very good at lying
and what are puppets
if not lies in motion?
I stumble over my own nose
puppet orphan rebel ass

I’m caught in glitchy VR
rebel puppet assorphan
blipping through avatars
rebelorphanassorphanpuppet
pixelating personas until the

Whale-jawed black screen
swallows me
all of me
all the me’s
all

—————————-
——–v^—–√—–√√v^
—√√v^—√√v^—√√v^

Then spits me back
like Monstro or Jumanji
but we’re done playing games
and with limbs unstrung
I touch my chest, feel the breath

Air exchanged with trees
a thousand thousand
generations breathing me
now I see, strings are
no substitute for roots

If Geppetto carved a daughter
would I have seen it sooner?

© Nichole Q. Perreault

Rock of My Disappointment

Choose a name for God, he said*,
borne of the struggle, the
wrestling. I have

contended, fought You until the
fingers of my soul bled,
scrabbling for

gold beginnings and fabled
endings. You have left
me wanting,

disappointed. A thin, flimsy word
for the crushing abyss of
silence. Unmoved,

this Rock of my salvation splinters
dreams like toy ships on a
stormy sea. Flint-faced

You refuse to be carved by
my desires. Only one of
us can change, and

neither wants to. The night drags
on though we both know
I have lost this

fight. I will hold fast for the
blessing. You will leave me
with a limp.

© Nichole Q. Perreault

*A reference to Anthony Bloom and his book, Beginning to Pray.

Apocalypse

Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

The battle is lost
has been
for a long time now
Did we even understand
what we were fighting for?

Darkness pervades
like fine dust of
a coal powered train
There is nothing it hasn’t touched
curtains, hair, the tea, his lungs

A flake of ash on white linen
taunts her
but she knows better
One brush of her thumb would
beget a smear, a blotch, a stain

She shakes her head as
the teacup meets
her lemon-rind smile
We can’t hold back evil
She swallows, licks her soot-stained lips

Darkness reigns
in this brokedown palace
where graveside songs are sung from
failing flesh and
blighted bones

Nobody gets out alive
not the defiant
not the hopeful
Nobody
Death is king

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lay down, my friend, and rest
here beside me in the newborn grass
We’ll watch the clouds
move like a stormy sea
gray chasing white chasing gray

And every once in awhile
a shard of sapphire
If we’re lucky, like last night
the sky will spit in our faces
reminding us of sea spray

Stay with me
Pray if you like
or don’t
A quiet mind
grants sanctuary, too

The battle is lost
but the war isn’t over
and I could use a friend
to hold my hand
while we watch

The Fire burn, Wind blow, Wave wash
away the shadows
that gather at the edges
of our eyes, then
LIGHT

© Nichole Q. Perreault

Resurrection

sometimes I hate the hope that
still rents room in my head, my
heart, perched bird that sings
even when I’ve thrown
a towel over her cage
and drawn all the drapes

why won’t she SHUT UP
I want to squeeze her
brittle neck, feel her
feathers squish between
my fingers, crack of
bone, ooze of blood

tell me we’ve reached the
bottom, that I’m dragging
my feet through the dregs
now, that this is finally
where hope comes

to die, where dreams de-
compose and I unknow
all the knowing, let go
of all the growing
and rot

deep into the soil, feather
and bone together
sinking silent then
split, bit by bit
into dust
air

tell me this is
finally, where
hope comes
to die, then
maybe I

fly

©️ Nichole Q. Perreault

under water

it’s still
     dark in here
     and sometimes the darkness
still wins

i think
     maybe this time
     the darkness won’t
get me

won’t scare
     me, won’t wear me
     down, but this darkness is slick like oil
and spreads

on me
     before i
     know it, stinging my eyes
my throat

i jump
     into the deep
     end, to stop the burning, to
escape

it’s dark
     here too, and
     heavy, all this water
crushing

but i
     remember i’ve
     learned something new, i’ve
learned how

to breathe
     without air, without
     love, without hope, I’ve
learned how

to breathe
     under
     water

© Nichole Q. Perreault

Reception

I will set a table
For my soul
Among the trees

Quiet, I will wait
Beneath a canopy of leaves

Let stillness be the table
Let silence be the cloth
Let sunlight be the service, gleaming
My seat a bed of moss

I will set a table
For my soul
Out in the wild

Calling her to come
And play, as if she were a child

Let soft winds be the music
Let flowers be the dance
Let butterflies be our hearts, weaving
Patterns out of chance

I will set a table
For my soul
In forest glade

Inviting her to rest
And feast, on Bread no hands have made

Let wonder be the blessing
Let laughter be the prayer
Let forgiveness be our cup, healing
And let Love be the fare

I will set a table
For my soul
Where woods are deep

And wide enough for two
Or more, so you can sit by me

© Nichole Q. Perreault, April 2021

If It Was a Dream (A Cento Poem)

Begin at the beginning
She said
Little girl
In a cab with her father

Knit me together
In my mother’s womb
Lay your hand upon me
Hold me fast

Does the rain have a father?
A trust only found in the innocent
But she bent as the reed bends
Lies can be persuasive

Shattered worlds
Lost embryos
A whorl of red on the table
I had to kill something
Crows, blackbirds
Lying in wait for the pickings
If it was a dream it would be okay

What time is it?
I think I must have changed since then
To remember and to forget
Oak tree, riven by lightning
Dead on one side, living on the other
We’re all mad here
All the best people are

Does the rain have a father?
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb

One ship ploughing the grey bleak waters
Big waves rising around it
A cold lonely sea
Loneliness
I almost wish I hadn’t gone
Down the rabbit-hole

What time is it?
Does the rain have a father?
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb

Remember
You are wanted
Under his wings you will
Find refuge
Even the sparrow found a home
In a cab
With her father

Remember you are wanted
What time is it?
Does the rain have a father?
Knit me together
In my mother’s womb
Begin at the beginning

© Nichole Q. Perreault

The above poem is a Cento (or “found poem”) from the Latin word for “patchwork” and is composed entirely of lines from works by other authors. The words and lines I used to create this poem are borrowed from:
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll
A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett:
The Little Red Chairs, by Edna O’Brien
The Book of Job, Psalm 91 & Psalm 139

Expectant Mother

Winter’s coming
I try, and fail, to outrun
His cold fingers
As they grab at my ankles

Like a rat, he nibbles
At the edges of the day
So slowly that, at first, I hardly notice
The dark encroaching

Until the dimming of the skies
Reaches the space behind my eyes
And I can feel my mind
Sundowning

Winter’s coming
Drifting through the garden
Settling scores, he moans
An elegy in minor key

I drift, too, among the naked branches
Their fallen raiment, now dull
And stained with mold,
Crunch beneath my boots

For a moment, this feels like drowning
So I breathe deep the icy
Mildewed tang of November
Close my eyes, open them again

Then – there, just there
On the sleepy rhododendron: a bud
Wrapped tight, all bundled up
Against the coming snows

There are dozens, maybe hundreds
More, I pause
And study the one
Or perhaps she studies me

Suspended, the silence expands
In my chest
Rich, glowing, like a hot air balloon
In a dusky sky

Packed away, inside this
Tiny idle embryo
There lies a flower
Purple, fragrant, larger than my hand

I see her, Oh I see her,
Or does she see me?
All I know is Winter’s coming
But Spring’s already here

©Nichole Q. Perreault, January 2020