Without Detection

By Nichole Turnbloom

A wooden door, an iron key, a warm egg,
a spindle, a basket of treasure. Bodies severed 
and gathered sing themselves whole

Skulls dressed with jewels watch 
with flickering eye sockets — burns: two sisters, 
the wired uncle, the wedding guests. 

The skull buried in the garden springs forth 
a rose bush- lest we forget 
that all beauty has its thorns. Curiosity is not a 
 
is a Greek God named Cura, her name 
means “care”.  My daughter turns 
over a new arrival on the coffee table: another 

feminist book she decides before 
understanding that knowing ourselves
is the greater than any promise, the petty

friendships tolerated will cut your tongue
and height. The boys are commenting upon
certain bodies. The terrain is old, and I am tired. 

Soles bound in leather, around spines. 
In Greece a woman looked me over, 
nodded and said - of the earth-. 
 
Pistachios, horta with a squeeze 
of lemon and snake-pour of olive oil, 
feta in brine we gather in bags

we eat the whole fish, add something 
new to the ancient sauce. The only way 
to ensure the clothes fit is to reinvent 

the pattern. A woman I haven’t seen 
in years says: I know that jaw line 
from anywhere- there was nothing more to say. 

Nichole Turnbloom has provided individual and group yoga therapy to survivors of violence, abuse, in cancer and addiction recovery. She has an MFA in poetry and has taught poetry, facilitated workshops and writing retreats. You can read her work in Acumen, Journal of Westbrae Literary Group, Garlic Press Lit, The Branches, California Quarterly  Spillwords and in IWWG’s Anthology Write Forward, among other venues.