a poetry e-zine










Poems By Nicole Borg

Eve Falls: Part II


She has learned 

the open mouth of desire,

the closed eyes, back arching

to prove he is gifted

in the arts of pleasure.

She knows the teasing curves

of her unclothed body,

the way moonlight traces lines

like greedy hands.

She has watched the women 

in those videos

package their flesh 

as any enticing morsel

on a supermarket shelf– 

silky cloth that does not cover,

that moves on the body,

a tantalizing skin.

She knows the pitch of her sigh,

the shudder of breath,

the whisper of words in the dark,

meaningless, except of timbre.


She has always been

a good student.




When We Were Kids


When we were kids,

I caught shooting stars in my mouth,

found the end of the rainbow 

in a corner lot,

spun gold thread into stories 

that skated across my tongue 

like first snow.

When we were kids,

you fell down wells,

wandered forests inhabited by crooked-nose witches,

washed out to sea at high tide.

I never knew how to pull you in.

My words lost their magic just before your middle ear.

I tried to hold you with pinkie promises, 

and schoolyard song, 

and happily-ever-afters not found in books.

But we had read different fairy tales.

I swallowed stars,

you choked on the moon’s darker half.





I have loved you 

since Astronomy in fourth grade,

since I could pick you out

of a messy lineup of stars.

For so long,

I thought the Big Dipper

was an old fashioned ladle for water.

I never mistook you

for anything but a man– 

three bright stars, your great belt,

your broad shoulders,

your bronze club raised.

I told myself a story of you

As long as you are in my sky,

I said, I am home.

You followed me through seasons

and latitude lines,

shifting quietly in the dark.

I bore your son,

all light and myth,

while you hovered in the vast night

as any anxious father.

I kissed his black hair, his pink face,

his crooked nose.

I gave him your name–  

your blessing. 




Long Division


He speaks from far away,

as if contemplating a great distance– 

the path the stroke has taken

leaving his body a work of division.


This is just another version of Job’s story,

he would say– 

the systematic taking away of each thing of value

family and livelihood and physical strength.

And now, this symmetrical splitting 

into left and right.

Messages he sends his body, 

go undelivered.


For his willingness to play the game,

Job was given the consolation prize– 

a new wife and kids,

a big house, an abundant harvest,

an appreciation of the comedic side of tragedy– 

the gift of a very long life.


Job must have compared 

the new wife to the old,

the last brood to the first,

his dreams segregating themselves

into befores and afters.


Now, he dreams of new forms of loss,

not symbols but actual events– 

flood and famine and war.

He pictures two hemispheres of gray matter

and loss hanging like a dead weight of flesh

on only one side.


Nicole Borg is an ex-English teacher, poet, and fiction writer.  Her work has appeared in Dust & Fire, Main Channel Voices and Green Blade.  Besides writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, Yoga and daydreaming of writing.  She lives in Wabasha, MN on the beautiful Mississippi River with her husband and two year old son.   

Copyright 2010  Chantarelle's Notebook