Did you decide that winter
is your vanishing season?
That the frost is where you take your leave?
I have starved on less,
but you swore I wouldn’t be hungry
this January.
So, why do all my pockets have holes
and my heart vacates like a hotel room
after a weeklong conference?
So, why am I alone, holding hands
with memories and begging stars
to tell you
goodbye doesn’t mean forever?
new poet
Funeral: a Poem
Housed within my ribs
is a metronome that on a good day,
glistens like a cluster of amethyst,
but most days, it burns
like an arsonist’s proudest achievement.
It is an anatomical feature
I thought I disposed of
when sitting on fire escapes,
waiting for lovers to save me from the clutches
of my own sins & sorrows.
But she wrapped some grass around my obituary
and smoked it.
The vapors felt like my soul parting from my body,
but you did not say goodbye.
That day,
you made love to my ghost while a part of me watched.
That’s the shame of dying –
no one knows where we are
& I exited the room silently.
Isabelle Palerma
Unlike You: a Poem
“Unlike you . . .” a prompt from Kay A.
In less than a month,
unlike you to care about the wreckage of the Titanic that is my heart.
I have witnessed you stampede on
and trample me barefoot.
Yet,
the teeth you bared is what
I have come to expect.
Family taught me
(for better or worse)
to murder with mercy.
When you were flashing your baby teeth,
sharpening like knives,
I was practicing my smiles
in polished glass.
Unlike you to offer condolences
or express empathy,
and yet, the past few days,
while Lazarus has been in the tomb,
a different side of you has been exposed.
Unlike you to show warmth,
still a reptilian cold underneath,
but the air is a bit milder now – less frost,
less chill.
Unlike you to offer benevolence and yet,
a crack of a smile,
a beginnings of generosity.
Is it possible you were murdered by my mercy?
Killed by my kindness?
Or did New Year’s resolutions just fall
a few days behind on this calendar?
I’m not one to gaze the gift horse
in the mouth,
but I do have my suspicions
when you were flashing those fangs,
honing them like knives,
and are now sweet as spun sugar.
Just call me Doubting Thomas
if your kindness only lasts as long as
Lazarus was in the tomb.
Isabelle Palerma
A Cage for Your Heart, the Softness of Sadness, and the Gentle Lull of Love: a Poem
An architect constructed you a mansion
for your heart and you called it a cage.
He crafted each room with so much caution
and care.
The muscle nestled between your ribs
felt like a boulder I was incapable of swallowing,
I am a myth,
tugging on strings that have strangled me.
My fantasies were polished glass shards
shattered by laments and heartbreak.
Ancestors draped mirrors
with black organza in bereavement
after a loved one died.
The fabric is as light as a ghost,
so tell me,
how did I still I wake up with
bits of glass crunching beneath my feet?
The sadness was a fragile creature –
the weight of black organza –
and yet I am a myth,
desiring nothing more than to pull
the strings that choke me.
But it’s gentle sometimes,
sneaking in like a moth,
as soft as a ballerina’s skin
and barbed wire.
Our wires danced across the dance floor,
and if you watch,
we might just choke on the memory,
the softness of sadness, and
the gentle lull of love.
Isabelle Palerma
Rain, Changing Seasons, & Hiraeth: “Ghost Line” Poems
In March of 2009, the poet Rachel McKibbens introduced the poetry community to the concept of the “ghost line”. McKibbens defines the ghost line as “an inspiring line or image that becomes the unseen first line of a poem”.
The poet Ollie Schminkey provided their readers with a poetry prompt on April 9, 2025.
The prompt is as follows:
Use a line of a lyric from a song you have been listening to as a ghost line.
Here are a few more “ghost line” poems.
i: rain
These shapes I see in the darkness all conform
to your figure
and your cologne is like petrichor but faint.
I think if I listen to the silence long enough,
I can hear you whisper my name.
(Don’t tell anyone –
they’d think I belong in bedlam.)
But, as I trace raindrops along my windows,
I remember scribbling in my Latin book,
Amantes sunt amuntes –
lovers are lunatics –
and it doesn’t take the taste of rain to know
the truth.
I’ll continue to watch the raindrops trickle down
and chase shadows in the dark,
but I won’t surrender to the madness
because this is love and every silent evening,
I whisper to see if I can hear your echo.
ii: changing seasons
Here we are, chasing these temporary highs
like nightcrawlers leaning close to their radios,
begging for a fix,
but in a sad state of panic,
you told me you thought your blood froze to ice
(and you said you didn’t want to self-destruct
to stay warm).
I offered you a cigarette,
but you shook your head and said,
“I don’t want a solution for my problems –
just someone who can commiserate.”
So, we went outside in autumn
and watched the leaves change colors for a while.
You told me,
“It’s nice to remember that even dying can be
beautiful
for some.”
iii: hiraeth
Every broken bone I never set right
aches on me
as though I have been falling asleep in airports.
I’m never where I want to be
because I swear, I don’t know where I want to be.
Is it homesickness, even if you don’t know
where your home is?
I traveled a thousand miles from here
just to end up back in this wasteland
and I booked a train ride
out of town
because a girl with straw-blonde hair
read from the Rider-Waite tarot deck,
telling me to leave this city behind.
(But everything hurts when I remember
the details.)
I watch it all like it’s a dream.
I pretend it’s not my life,
but that has to stop.
Everything hurts like an unexplained car crash,
but even though I’m a thousand miles away,
I’m the one behind the wheel.
(And is it homesickness,
even if you’re already home?)
Isabelle Palerma 