February 2024
Nicole Lombardi
nlombardi617@gmail.com
nlombardi617@gmail.com
Bio Note: I am a high school English teacher and writer from Oak Park, IL. I have work published in English Journal, Mindful Word, Dissident Voice, and others. The current genocide in Palestine is of upmost importance to me, and I thank you for allowing me to raise my voice to the Palestinians with these poems.
Soul of my Soul
for Khaled Nabhan, Gaza
Who knew after forty-six years of being gone
Papa would appear in my feed as images
fallen from heaven?
Bearded and tall, love
in his deep-set eyes and warmth
in his olive skin.
But he is not my grandfather.
Who knew I would remember how
Papa teased me too,
Like Khaled pulling Reem’s braids
till she giggled.
She wanted fruit
the night before it all came down,
the night before
the soul of his soul died.
The night before
his image first reminded me of
the pomegranates Papa brought
as he breathed through sick lungs.
Who knew the night before,
when they begged
to go out and play
and he had to say no,
that the real danger was in going to sleep.
that maybe Reem and her brother were
better off playing anywhere but home.
He found them through the dark night.
Found only the tops of things–
headboards and high drawers–
bodies underneath.
Did he know as he ran?
Did he know as he screamed along
the rocky road in the direction of his soul
he would only find her little doll?
Did he know?
And who knew that a turban and
strong beard would come to mean
fierce love? Would turn the tables
on what they’ve shoved on us
as terror?
How does he now move on
to help the broken world around him?
The newly buried,
the barely living.
How is he there, giving?
In the darkness
of the images in my feed,
his face brings me less grief.
And who would know
that he'd become the soul of my soul?
Trespass
At Haymarket House
we trained today for the red team,
the team that will get arrested,
the ones who will block passage and
do what bodies can do at the
bridge at Boeing
to disrupt the system,
to add to the function of
little disruptions
for the tyrants,
to add to the exhales throughout a world
tired of violence.
Tired of silence.
Will Boeing listen? Will they wake next day
and give in
to our simple songs of peace,
paper doves and tambourines?
Trainers prepared us with the worst that can happen:
zip ties too tight,
a body search too invasive,
no access to food for hours and
you might not get your meds you will be cold the toilet is out in the open.
“Remember, jail is a violent place.”
And then, “They want it that way.”
My friend will get arrested tomorrow,
I will help.
It’s trespass, a minor violation, but
I can’t spend the night in jail this time.
I have work the next morning.
On the way home we take highways
which wind around the city while we talk of
zip ties
and morning rides home
for the red team.
Through her driver’s side window
and across the dark road
a man is barely visible as a human form under
a piled-high bundle
of blankets in muted colors–
a hairy-topped head peeking out.
Our dashboard says 40 degrees.
It’s trespass, I think, silent
while we turn west.
©2024 Nicole Lombardi
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL