Nicole F. Kimball

The New God

I assume I know what my poetry is about as I write it.
I assume the body is the complete abolition of the star systems running ice over a limb— deadening, dismissal, round and perfect oval.

…what I wish to no longer give away, or reduce to. Reflection is more of the moon than the sun’s own temporary light.

Voicemail, 1:32 pm- uhh yes hello Mrs. Kimball this is Dr. Barnett at St Marks hospital your X-ray came back it looks like your kneecaps are slightly oriented to the side, causing instability and pain. You’re going to need 12 weeks of physical therapy, although you might have a torn meniscus which could result in needing surgery further down the line. Good luck to you, see you in four weeks.

Acid trip: two pink whales discover there is an island underneath the solemn hood of the water. They travel below the belly button and create what inchoate dust, uninterrupted by evolution, must taste like.

Symptoms may include coughing, wheezing, sore throat, anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, upset stomach, diarrhea, headache, and dizziness. Do not take if allergic. Do not take before operating heavy machinery. Do not take if pregnant or are planning to become pregnant.

I’m in a cave, no— I’m in a cape. Spending 72 hours rolled up like a souring cocoon, alone in the closet, blinded by even the smallest of light signals. The closet is painted black. The head thrums in ideas contrived in tanning wavelengths.

Analgesia anesthesia lidocaine novocaine shroud me in comfort so that I lay flailing upwards towards the ceiling and I may not know the difference between lifelong praise and the praise of a long life, I look down and across and it is suddenly a life not soon enough to meet the struggle of being old with joints cracking wheat, thinning elongating transversely on the open road holding hiemail; acrostic winter carrying all the grief a summer cannot explain, carrying all the weight a tree’s bark might not be able to expose— the inexorable chilling— and all of it should be the point of insanity—

A newborn in the NICU right next to the psychiatric ward looks like a balding spidermass. A pinkie is vomited out of a bald eagle. A larynx is somewhere, quivering inside a thing and this should be the only conceivable judgment. See? Life still moves.

MRI depicts no inflamed tissue. Forebrain perplexed, iris size in top 2nd percentile. Long neck, long pumpkin ripe against long stemmed cauliflower— portmanteau— longing for bellflower…

To create a new god—or Gods—reconstruct whatever you can— it is vital that you try to believe in something bigger than yourself— try for me; baby; try—not in the invention of the wing—the song— the heart pitter pattering past life being interesting— you’ve gotta believe in the reverie—the ever so succulent poetry—