Nicole Melchionda is a graduate of Stetson University where she majored in English with a minor in creative writing. There she completed an independent study on gothic poetry with award-winning poet Terri Witek. She’s worked as an English teacher in China and now resides in Poland.
Twenty splits in the biological clock
and fear sequesters cryopreserved embryos.
Suspended animation: half-mother, half-amphibian.
Fetal pathos deposited on the lily pad.
Mutations can rip endometrium
and oxytocin burns holes through plasma.
If male expires after implantation,
the quilted child births Mother Fusion
whose genes shred and fossilize
to commemorate the dead:
his eyes, his laugh, his lizard legs.
If one mate expires cradling untapped breed,
when must the decision to abort, ignore, or engulf be made?
*previously published in In-Flight Magazine
Hearse / Shrine
Multiple redactions of “Heir and Sea” by George Salis
The churning womb, like shivering yolks, soaked
deathless trenches. She contained earth, wonder.
Fabled wounds cremate her waves, the cosmic ritual
an uninvited void.
II. Omniscient again
Veins hovered over the hinges
of netherworld. She awoke half-formed,
the melancholy stirring refracted nonsense.
III. Deeper still
The sound of human chalk persisted as wings
consoled. Membranes smelled the frenzy,
settled by immensity.
IV. Buoying hues
The note beneath the mania said
engage in obscure patterns,
forget the found, twice deceased then sunk.
Oneiroscopist jottings: a month of unconscious mumbles recorded by G
That looks terrifying. This picture. This, like the weight of stuff. I don’t know what that was. That was a lot of cards. Any ideas? You’re not supposed to see anything. Don’t raise it back to life. We have the house to ourselves. Tired enough to bring him? I guess plants and puzzles and shit make me tired. You covered your mouth. I keep finding dead bodies. How do we get back there? Neither of us can see now. Your stuff looks written all over. I wish we could change the color of the candles. I don’t even want to imagine hearing adults say when they hear whatever. Fuck. It’s just different colors. Every way you position it it’s a different thing. Isn’t it ridiculous, my tongue? I’m old because I’m just like very slow with things. I always think people will think my stuff is trash and dump their trash on it because it looks like trash because that’s where the trashcan is. You don’t have to be so careful. He stretches his little legs. Is Charlie still here? I thought he was here. There’s a goat. It’s doing something bad. You want to try doing it? Try doing it with two hands, because I can’t. Last week. Just don’t break my flower. It’s all I got. Those are the north apples. Lace him up. The cat. Handsome.
*previously published in The Sleep Aquarium
You promised it wouldn’t feel this way,
7 daffodils compressing against tongue.
Can you still feel it, the love I sung so deep into your fibers it created emboli?
I still taste the static on your translucent arm hairs
(splinters caking the back of my throat)
and fucking like an eclipse wasn’t just part of our imaginary lingual foreplay.
I miss the self I never wanted to be.
Now I guide your lips through the labyrinths of legs knotting into you
hoping my silence in vibrato allures you
to crawl inside my bones split to sarcophagus.
We could laugh and then cry about our bodily anomalies.
You and I, an estuary of sadness.