temporal contiguity.



This old perfume

in the creamy curvaceous bottle

looks and smells

like a bride

filled with hope

lust, wonder

and security,

its blanketing grace

cloaking chilled shoulders

with protective serenity.


Cinnamon, clove,

crimson red rose,

sage and sensuality

provides transport

to the misty day when

dense clouds loomed

smokey and thick

in fifty degree

late September skies,

parting only

for that abracadabra moment

when relentless rains stop

and the bride floats out

upon a lungful of

At Last,

filling the air

with sunshine

and bullshit.


Bitterness can’t help

bleeding through to memories,


doing them injustice


because I deserve them-

pure, and beautiful memories-

unscathed by future seepage

through time’s layers,

whispering bitter words

into the bride’s ears,


whispering things

she already knew

deeply and painfully,

but chose to ignore

for the sake of happiness,

maybe. Just this once.


unadulterated and entirely lovely.


(Trembling hands

transfer shivers

to the giggly bouquet,

ferns wiggling,

autumn berries bobbing,

lilies sprinkling

a dusting

of orange pollen

into the wind,

exaggerated nerves

filling the air with “Amour”

and damned if this

isn’t exactly what love

smells like)



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

From the other side.


Fingers don’t want to hold the pen,

hands don’t want to cradle

the mustard

hardcover remnant

of my sweet dead aunt’s

unfulfilled poetic achievements,

so I stand still.


Hands and fingers can’t write

while muscles are too afraid

of the truth they bring,

still resisting and trembling

over eager keys

like a virgin sacrifice

to technology,

I imagine they aren’t my fingers

writing the words

I was too afraid to say,

but said. Said aloud. Said anyway.


Said that I loved him.

That I was impressed by his resolve.

That I forgave him.

(My anger a caged tiger

set free upon two paths,

choosing freedom

over revenge.)


Said that I wronged

in desperation

to right the wrongs

done to me

by controlling him.

Said that I was obsessed,

ill at ease,

enabling at best

and disabling at worst.


Said that passion is unrealistic

when a shotgun shell impostor

is all remaining at present

and every possible future

is infested

with shadows of the past.


What I didn’t say,

is that I was never myself.

Never for all of those years.

He was a black hole

eternally stretching my limbs

upon the event horizon.


Creativity abandoned,

friends forgotten,

willpower a vapor

escaping through ever-growing fractures

as I gave him all of me

ignoring that “all of me”

was filled with dusty nothing.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014