Isabelle Palerma

Author & Poet

Recent Posts

    • A Senectitude (or, a Resurrection): a Poem

      Aside from the hush, hush, hush whisper of wind rustling somewhere
      between the threshold of memory and silence,
      dawn spreads across the horizon
      diffusing a web of light & new day.
      The last embers of scattered stars burn out
      over a mountain.

      And as I sip from a mug
      a warm taste of coffee,
      I think of the things that are now the past.
      Things that billow around me
      like ash.


      I recall the cry of a sparrow.
      I think I remember him asking for
      forgiveness, too.
      Eyes glow like lanterns
      and tears spring like freshwater.
      A mouth that greedily accepts love.


      All this,
      and a silence too rich to swallow.
      I watch a migration of birds
      and wonder if I could fly
      where I would be by now.


      My mug still warm in my hands,
      yet if I had wings,
      the ceramic would cool,
      the coffee would go river-cold.
      & I would no longer be
      here.


      The rain could call my name,
      and the hush, hush, hush whisper
      of wind rustling,
      and I would be an echo,
      then, a memory,
      and finally,


      silence.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • Afterglow: a Short Fiction

      Warning: This short story is an abstract expression of what it feels like to survive domestic violence. If you find this subject matter potentially triggering, please do not continue reading.

      If you need to find support in a situation like this, please consider looking at this link.

      Originally published in November 2021.

      Fingertips against cheekbones.

      The result? A bruise or a caress. Her flinch is noticeable but only if you look for it. A stained-glass heart shatters, and it could create a mosaic. A human heart breaks, and it could create lace of invisible scars.

      The door slams, and she trembles like a leaf before its descent to the ground. It’s the aftermath you expected but did not deserve. She tried to warn you that beauty like hers is a fragile kind.

      You did not listen. The words fell on empty ears. She may as well have been speaking into a conch.

      Tell her she’s beautiful.

      Hold her close like she’s a glass angel.

      Whisper you love her just the way she is.

      Will she ever learn that love like yours has no bounds, that bruises fade?

      The scars are just as fabled as the laugh lines. This is all history, and you’re determined to turn the page.

      “I’m scared,” she whispers, clinging to you in the dead of the night. You reach a hand up to stroke her hair, but she shudders as though she was left out in the cold.

      Keep watch for progress.

      Hope things will be different.

      An entire year passes, and she still wears these scars as though announcing her surrender. As though begging for atonement.

      You plead with the invisible gods that one day she will be strong enough to move on.

      Her eyes widen like saucers and shimmer like shards of broken glass.

      “Do you remember what love really feels like,” you start to ask, but before the words are gutted from your lips, her chin trembles and tears trail down her cheeks.

      You don’t expect her to reply, but she does. “Patching craters in the wall his fist made. The cracked dessert plates that only needed to be washed. Blood is red, violet is a bruise, I get the love I choose. Love is whispering and pleading, the tears no one saw.”

      “You experienced love before him,” you insist.

      Memory is a distortion. We exaggerate and undermine, even destroy events. Like the dodge-and-burn technique you learned in a high school darkroom years prior.

      The stretch and pull makes memories as pliable as saltwater taffy.

      “I once wore a hibiscus bloom in my hair. I felt like a flamenco dancer. It was the color of fire. He said the color made him sick. I think it was my happiness that revolted him.” She never speaks his name.

      Not in all the time you two have been dating does she say his name aloud.

      Not in therapy.

      Not to you.

      Certainly not to you.

      It creates a myth out of a coward. A villain worth noting, but not naming.

      “Saying his name is like crunching through lightbulbs,” she admits, “fractured filaments split between my teeth. Saying his name cracks my spine like a library book bent rigid.”

      One morning, you notice the tissue-paper thin petals of a burning orange-pink hibiscus on the dark hardwood.

      You hear her humming her favorite song in the bathroom, her feet bare on the tile floor (not fearing shards of glass from a time past).

      When you snake an arm around her waist, her skin feels warm.

      Inviting.

      In the past, your presence was an intrusion. You were as wanted as a closet monster. The hibiscus in her brown curls casts a rosy glow on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkle as though they were cut of diamond stars.

      Your insides feel as though they are fizzing over, effervescent like champagne bubbles.

      This is what love feels like.

      Although her heart is in repair, the pieces create a mosaic of beauty. Though the pieces are bright and glimmering, they are still broken. Still they have jagged edges. Yet you see the beauty in each individual piece.

      Repair this broken heart.

      Mend these wounds.

      Do not despair.

      There is hope.

      There is beauty in the afterglow.

      Isabelle Palerma

      If you or a loved one is in danger or is in an abusive relationship, there are resources. You are not alone.

      Please do everything you can to ensure your and your loved ones’ safety. You are stronger than you know. There is hope. I got out of an abusive relationship. You can too. Not all injuries, wounds, violence is visible.

    • A Woman Free: a Poem

      I run
      into the midnight sky-dark.
      My hair wild –
      untamed and unbrushed.
      Stars coursing through
      my veins,
      a feral gleam in my eyes.

      I shimmer when I enter
      a room,
      as dirt lines my feet
      from waltzing with dandelions.

      I read tarot and dreams
      and poetry.
      I whisper my secrets
      to the goddess I see in the moon.
      Photograph sunrises and play music
      for my plants.

      I consult my crystals
      but still pray to the saints.
      St. Anthony for lost, little things.
      St. Jude for lost causes.

      But I still wear faint scars
      on my wrists,
      and remind myself
      the past belongs to yesterday.

      Reminding myself
      from now on, from forever forward,
      I am no longer a woman shackled
      but a woman free.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • WIP Excerpt: Dystopian Fiction

      It’s not all activism and urgency around here. I’m still working on my novels and fiction. In fact, here’s an excerpt from my newest work-in-progress, a dystopian sci-fi novel. Be sure to let me know what you think!

      Subject to edits and change at any time. This is a work-in-progress. It is an incomplete draft and by posting this, I am not claiming completion or a finished product.

      I need to see you; it’s urgent. The words shimmer before they dissolve into an array of scintillating pixels, then vanish entirely. As I yank my starched lab coat off, my thoughts splinter between the contents of the message and its sender, my best friend, Nahiya Winters.

      Meet me at my place? I text back and tug on my scuffed-up leather jacket.

      When the lab doors slide open, the chatter of my colleagues spills out, echoing against the hard linoleum. I can make out singular voices. Even individual words, though at first they’re hard to distinguish. Esteban describes which ZO he wants to go to tonight. Raquel mentions an eRave she’s been meaning to check out. Bridget simply says she wants to hit the gym before getting a cool shower.

      They all have plans.

      As they draw nearer, I hear Jonathan suggest a new ZO, somewhere near the corner of Lexington and 5th, near my former lab partner Fiona’s apartment. A place we can all relax at, or so he says. My heart lurches at the mention of Fiona’s name, at the memory of her.

      It wouldn’t be right to say she held all my secrets, but as lab partners, we knew each other more intimately than most. Then, my heart sinks, remembering the unceremonious way they fired her.

      The accusations.

      The slander.

      I stop in my tracks and consider the last time I saw her. The night at her apartment.

      That inhuman screeching wail as her feet were dragged along cobblestone. The way she wept and begged. Fuck. The guns. I keep seeing the guns: gleaming black metal in the neon night.

      Our supervisors head in the opposite direction — toward their high-tier district luxury apartments and home dream theaters where they can unwind in private. And I understand the need.

      After a fourteen-hour shift, I don’t blame any of them for needing a zone-out experience, but the word “urgent” pumps through my veins, buzzing with needful vitality like glitterghost or mirrordust. Stimulants I don’t take but are Regime-sanctioned. “For both recreational and commercial use,” like all the advertisements say. To keep the populace awake.

      Wincing, I rub my arm at the site of the pinprick where the staff nurse injected me with the most updated formulation of the energy booster shot. Even though it was practically half a day ago, I’m still sensitive to the pain. At least the high hasn’t worn off yet. As I sanitize my hands and leave my station, I glance up. Just above the exit sign, the time blazes in a giant LED display: 3:23 AM.

      “You coming with us?” Jonathan calls, lingering behind the rest. “There’s a new zone-out café we’re all checking out. I even convinced Raquel to skip out on the eRave scene for a change. This new place is supposed to be pretty lush. Hottest new dream downloads and everything. Wireless eyewear. Either ear surround or localized surround. The works.” His blue-green eyes pierce through the darkened hall, pleading, but I shake my head.

      “Got some personal stuff I’m dealing with,” I say, shaking my head. “But thanks anyway, bro.” Gritting my teeth, I swear I hear the timpani of bullets, but it’s a memory. I swear I see Fiona further ahead. And what’s worse is when you can’t tell memory from distant sounds, from far-off sights.

      Rest would be impossible, even if I were lying in the most lavish zone-out café, immersed in the most tranquil dreamscape. Jonathan looks wounded for a moment, then searches my face for further explanation. Not finding any answers, he jogs off to join the rest of the group. A hint of his bergamot cologne remains as a deep sense of gratitude engulfs me that he doesn’t ask any more questions.

      My phone trills with Nahiya’s response: I’m already here.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • I am Jane Doe: a Movement

      On Threads, there is a movement, “I am Jane Doe”, standing up for the woman who just spoke up about being gang-raped by seven Cornell University fraternity brothers. Women like me who have survived sexual assault and rape are proclaiming ourselves as Jane Doe.

      This is to protect her true name after those with zero integrity have attempted to identify her. Not only does it protect her details, but it also provides solidarity among those who have survived such trauma.

      But after witnessing time and time again how the patriarchy has failed women, I’m growing infuriated. I no longer want to stay silent. In about two weeks, I’ll be featured in an anthology called Rage, Well Spoken.

      I’ve written poems about my rapes and about very public sexual assault cases such as Chanel Miller and Brock Turner. I plan on writing more about the Cornell 7.

      I don’t plan on staying silent anymore. I don’t just stand with Jane Doe; I am Jane Doe.

      I’m a survivor. I’m much more than the things I have lived through. But I plan on using my voice. I will be heard. I will be heard for all those who cannot speak and for all the times I could not use my voice.

      That being said, please consider checking out Rage, Well Spoken.

      Isabelle Palerma