Nickie Albert is a poet and playwright. She is currently working on a new play, Use No Hooks. She has worked in a number of professions including social work, educational administration and ice cream. She now supplements her literary career doing Software Development. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Three Poems (May-ish, 2011. Issue 28.)

Jake, at Four

Its bedtime in the blue room 
little feet want to move 

                   leap 
the side of the bed             
                   grab 
the nearest giraffe               
                   ride, 
gallop in long strides 

down the hallway, 
out of the house, 
the length of the silent 
street. 

The moon is out, 
night is nigh 
hush, 
                   hush                      
stay                                
                   stay 
sleep has to find its way 
in, to nestle our necks 
furry and soft like Monkey 
under the covers. 

                   Still 
Buzz and his friends 
on a rescue mission 
storm our tent 
bent on saving you                

from sleep 

from me 

from

                   eyelids 
close to closing,                                
translucent pink 
covers the blue.

You have Wadley 
and Monkey’s for me 
but, ere we fall fast, 
too fast 

                   small 
soft palms 
cup my face 
small breath near mine 
sighs into the dark 

and slide, we two, 
quiet 
                   quiet 
into the warm corner. 
      

Before Dawn

The last time
I slept as we
in this bed
it was another shade
of a decade.
Oh this one,
but the light
on my face
in the morning
was of a different hue.

Falling into the mattress
bone against bone,
seduced into the soft
cushion of my hair,
a strong thigh
under my hand,
a strong hand
cradles my head,
and we doze.

Bodies touching,
a stroke in the small
of my back, the softness
of a cheek, asleep
in the dream
of each other
not quite asleep.

I am not quite asleep
now, before dawn.
My head rests
on the pillow
and I sleep the sleep
of one alone.
Motionless.
Dreamless.
Still.

We Specialize in The Dead

flashed the sign in the record store window.
There's no competition for the undertaker

the one who turns the body over
and over in his gloved hands

looking for ways in,
looking for ways out.

I didn't see my father at the funeral home
I didn't go into the building

I stayed in the car and watched the Spring rain
fall on Cape Cod.

My aunt went in and for twenty years
I've wondered what she saw.

What fine work did the mortician do?
Did he mend the seared skin?

Did he plug up the hole?
Did he repair the body to recognition?

There may have been no hole.
There may have been little skin.

What repair for a body
that will turn to ash?