After Taking My First Dose of Lexapro
by Nikki Ummel
Roundness like a drum. Feeling the circle of it all. Bird bone radiance and a rising tingle. Toes looped like friendship bracelets and a quiet bog mind. No stirring. A face gone fruit soft and nipples numb as ice cubes. Life grain rubbed to flower petals. Embroidered breath and the distinct impression that this moment has already happened. Kaleidoscopic eyes. Iridescent stillness. The wolves paw at the ground then lay down to nap. Safe as paradox. Idle churn like volcano sludge. Hard to find the mirror to wipe it. Trotting time and its slinky silk negligee.
Nikki Ummel (she/her) is a queer writer, editor, and educator in New Orleans. Nikki has been published or has work forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly, The Adroit Journal, The Georgia Review, and others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and twice awarded the Academy of American Poets' Andrea Saunders Gereighty Poetry Award. She is the 2022 winner of the Leslie McGrath Poetry Prize. She has two chapbooks, Hush (Belle Point Press, 2022) and Bayou Sonata (NOLA DNA, 2022). You can find her on the web at www.nikkiummel.com, Twitter @NikkiUmmel, and Instagram @nikkiummelwrites.
