Cecily Nicholson

collection of places, rain falls to ocean

Text reading: This passport is from the territory of the Door.

Hover is a collection of places where most days there are harvests
most days hinge ready to creak

We show our best
simple mechanic bodies leveraged to adapt

Parents would not become grand. Kept to one side of a border or another
eventually they fell away
shivering sympathetic nervous

child come through this sliding glass moment to wicket down a cue

Bus-charted highways for the city now, more than rural relations

Country heads marked in rain shadows of trauma restore
with poured joinery
shared histories of repair form new classroom

ditches, virtuosity seams property rivering the melt
as earthquakes loosen lakes

and trenches lined in landscape fabric
rustle my silt further and further inland

“Grace,” boys… about the mall called to me, back when
I could not reply to “What’s your name?”

Twine opening corridors of scalp to town
sun feels differently set differently through skyline teeth

A thin yield of cabbages speckled in rot everywhere
blight excels is/as a matter of course

A few ‘barrows heavy still farming enough to truck
for piecemeal wages, the long rows repeat sundown

Thatched hats lift to the breeze, seasonal conditions
remitting home, occupancy, groceries

Set foot on a plane for the first time at twenty-two
spring before my first wedding lasted a while longer

A culvert blend, a malecón flair, versions of summery

Fall returns my back to sit against a fence post, eyelevel
with a few missed scrags of wheat given chance to rot

to wonder the life of the field that will or was cast before

Winter comes and goes renting quiet evenings

The dirt hardened by dew simply frozen, our adjacent airs
on relatively calm nights are intime holds radiating
vapours to lift and vanish

Kin fictions enter and leave systems bio luminescence
Stormwater runoff the edge of a farm in turnstiles berths