C.G. Nelson



You lay in bed.

You were there,

Watching you clock creep

Closer to morning.


You reached out across

The bed, hoping

To grab onto something.


She is gone, of course.

She wasn’t there

To begin with.


It’s time to begin again.


As you watch the

Sun rise in your window,

You rise also.


And you are new again.



Together Again


He had a wooden fish–

more accurately a wooden puzzle.

He would sit on his bedroom floor and obsessively

put it back together again over and over and over over over



He would sit on the floor

and as he heard his parents fight,

he tore apart that wooden fish.


And when they couldn’t reconcile,

he tried to put in all back together



But that’s the funny thing with puzzles.


Sometimes you can have all the pieces

memorized, forwards and backwards.


Yet when it matters most you

can’t put it together again

for the life of you.





On a cold slab, bare and nude

I awake in a room that doesn’t include

anything warm or soft–


no drop of sun, no splash of a candle.

Then I see her– draped in dripping silk,

her hair the color of devil’s milk.


“How long have I been in this room?”

I ask her, “Are lilacs still in bloom?”


“April has come and gone,” she said,

“Time has no meaning in the land of the dead.”



C.G. Nelson has been an avid reader of poetry since she was thirteen years old. Her first loves were Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe. C.G. Nelson is a new poet. She went to the University of Washington, where she graduated with a degree in English and Philosophy. Find her on Twitter @CGNelsonwrites.