Three Poems by Sarah Nichols

08/21/2017

 

 

 

 

(Image Source)

 

 

Her Lost Days

 

Where I am,

the calendar doesn’t

 

matter anymore.

 

Call it heaven, 

if that makes it

 

easier for you. 

 

Dying is not

the end.

 

It is crowded

with the voices 

 

of days, all of

 

them

 

lost.

 

 

Source: Ellroy, James. The Black Dahlia. New York: Mysterious Press, 1987. Print.

 

 

 

Hollywoodland

 

In my dream, I was

pure.

 

A movie light, 

hypnotic.

 

The war sweetheart,

waiting.

 

That was before

this darkness. 

 

The ghosts of 

dead women

 

wait on me,

a queen at last. 

 

The Hollywood ending I

never

wanted.

 

 

Source: Ellroy, James. The Black Dahlia. New York: Mysterious Press, 1987. Print.

 

 

 

The Prettiest Star

 

“What you get is no tomorrow…”---David Bowie, “Fame.”

 

 

I thought I could own fame. 

 

Feed it and care for it,

a pet who would love me.

 

I would sign pictures,

studio shots.

 

I’d wear fur.

 

My mother would tell

her friends.

 

How the camera loves her

 

echoes down here.

 

I trace my name on 

my autopsy photos,

 

waiting for a comeback.

 

 

Source: Ellroy, James. The Black Dahlia. New York: Mysterious Press, 1987. Print.

 

 

 

 

 

Sarah Nichols lives and writes in Connecticut. She is the author of four chapbooks, including Dreamland for Keeps (Porkbelly Press, forthcoming, 2018), and She May Be a Saint (Hermeneutic Chaos Press, 2016). Her poems and essays have also appeared in LunaLuna Magazine, Thirteen Myna Birds, The Ekphrastic Review, and the RS 500.

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