POETRY: It's June and I'm / Nicole Misun Kormendi
Nearly June
and I’m
by Nicole Misun Kormendi
There’s a clarity, a simplicity even, to Nicole Misun Kormendi’s “Nearly June and I’m” that we find breathtaking, sure, but also illusory. There is the artful trappings of the steady beats (and eventual silence) of a relationship, but there is also the small sounds and textures and imagery that fill out the space of this journey. It’s like every read brings something else into focus.
Yellow out today. Not like sunlight,
just salmon and street paint.
To be blunt, my love, I’m at peace.
I tell you so, oiling my bangs.
You gather taupe at your feet and stand up.
Say we’re home sitting by the riverbed and
I hand you a blade of grass.
You pinch it between your fingers,
gaze fixed on the other side,
toward the smokestacks and railroads.
Silver waters lap at the shore.
Sometimes I fear it’ll dampen—
The linens in the back of the closet. The dishwasher-
warm air out the stairwell. The radio sounds.
Our language - the vowels round as the glob of glue
hanging down the back of your throat.
I rake my fingers through the rug and
you drop your head into my lap.
Your hair falls over my thighs.
If this goes wrong, keep the carpet.
That’s where I sat cross-legged when I loved you
and the TV hummed and you cupped my cheek.
I glance out the window. 7pm
smells of campfire and old cigarettes.
The uncles are out on their nighttime walks,
with arms draped behind their backs,
just across the block.
I think it’s time.
