By Nicole Scott
She takes the time to architect,
punching a fist down the cliffside
until a communal hall is born
for all of her individual daydreams,
sitting on the fallen rubble chairs
like they are prepared to be a chorus.
A church of sanity and consciousness,
whose congregation bears its teeth.
Rabid saliva cultivates like icicles—
and this is how she survived
in her own head for this long,
the uproar of the broken-hearted earth
hushed her apocalyptic humming:
a memoir pasted on the mother’s
hammer, ceaseless and commanding,
created a home for so many young things,
a hell for just as many nothings.
And the second the sky breathed
differently, the oceans fluttered and
Mom cherished herself for a moment.
Nicole Scott is a black coffee drinker, avid library explorer, and MFA graduate from Lindenwood University. Her blog, poetry, and other published work, like her West Virginia inspired chapbook, The Begging Branches, can be found on her website nicolescottpoetry.com.