January 29, 2021

Nicole Caruso Garcia

WARNING SIGN

He threw me over his shoulder in a caveman’s carry.
His townhouse full of partygoers, I struggled, Put me down!
Did they think it was a game? My hair grazed the ground.
One shoe threatened to fall. Were they daunted by his golfer’s build?
He hauled me up two flights—basement to bedroom—right
past Catholics with high SATs. Once he freed me, I’d see 

him hurl the photo album at the wall. Was I okay? No one came to see.
That tantrum, months before the wound I’d ultimately carry,
started when his buddies razzed him. I pleaded, They took it right
out of my hands! I forgot that photo was even in there. I retreated down 
the basement steps, but it only made the ugly in his eyes build. 
He would not be laughed at, not on his own stomping ground.

When he ordered me upstairs, I stood my ground:
You can’t make me. But to help the crowd unsee    
that photo of him in a mask of my red satin panties—lest it build
a reputation—I had to be sacrificed. Now I’m too volatile to carry.  
Hyper-vigilant, some might say. Yet if I let my guard down,  
chance may dredge up my mortified face. Even when men do right.

Upon seeing a firefighter bearing a survivor on his shoulders, I’m right
back on that staircase. The newsfeed rips the ground
from under me. Vowing to never again be upside down,              
I too often cast myself as Wonder Woman. My first landlady I still see 
flicking her cigarette: Frank ever put his hands on me, they’d carry 
him out in a pine box. Love a gentle man, and wager he won’t build  

a gallows, your footing at his pleasure. No matter the life I build—
degrees, publications, travels, a love who treats me right—
I was that upended woman. Mentioning a black belt, a permit to carry, 
I make some prick at a luncheon uneasy, so he probes for background:                     
Geez, what happened to you? He squints to see 
which wire to cut, the blue or the red. But Calm down

is just another way of saying Bow down.
Of saying I’m afraid what an angry woman will burn or build. 
Of saying Look at you on that staircase. The whole party can see
up my skirt, bystanders knocking back beers while Mr. Divine-Right- 
of-Kings carts me off like spoils of war, ass six feet off the ground. 
I became, though once heaved into that caveman’s carry, 

a woman who began spitting fire and rock into the sky in downright
anger, not knowing it would build for her solid ground, 
that with each hiss of lava entering the sea, her voice might carry. 

from Rattle #70, Winter 2020

__________

Nicole Caruso Garcia: “The career aptitude test in high school said I should have been a forensic scientist. I didn’t much like English. Yet in college, when in Kim Bridgford’s poetry workshop she selected exemplars to share, I marveled at how those poets managed to convey the ineffable. Their poems shone like little miracles. This was possible? I was willing to gamble that if I worked hard enough at the craft, I, too, might be able to say the otherwise unutterable. A poem can be a kind of forensic account, shining a light on the hidden or overlooked, and providing a framework for the evidence. Even if you don’t get justice, you’ll have the truth. It wasn’t until years later that I first heard the phrase ‘storytelling is activism’ or suspected that writing poems was, for me, an act of defiance. When my full-length manuscript was allegedly finished, my gut said that the narrative was incomplete—not in sequence, but in scope—without this as-of-then still unwritten poem. I had been rolling around the intention in my mind for several years, but why had I avoided tackling it? Sure, a warning sign is a hard truth, but no more unpalatable than the other material in the manuscript. Ultimately, I demanded of myself that I wrangle this sestina into being, and here it is, the final poem I wrote for Oxblood.” (web)

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July 12, 2020

Nicole Caruso Garcia

THE YEAR THAT SORROW SHOOK ME BY THE CUFF

lines from 60 poems by Kim Bridgford

You wanted to create, to be like God,
Your fingers on the pulse of poetry,
And if the story strained, you said, “Tell it.”

I was in love with all of them,
The way that words, in all their rawness, burn.
The way a text will flare and start to catch.

You seemed to know the most about the dark,
For books sewn up with thread, or Death’s kind face
And, through a piece of chalk, made knowledge gleam.

Poets and believers know,
Of course, there will be snakes around fruit,
There are ways to keep the women from the table.
It was the easiest thing to blame an Eve.

And yet when women start to write their poems,
With the taste of sex, and nerve, and milk and honey,
There’s the moment of true confession,
Relentless as the skull beneath the face.

A quavering sonnet, truth of someone’s life!
We should be sharing as we seize the day.
Guide others through their opportunities.

The family tree of sisters, and each branch
Like friendship that is offered by the yard,
You were the light around which people gathered.
You never thought the absence would be you.

I felt that I could live forever,
The calendar unthinkable as snow.

The poet’s carpe diem attitude:
We have to take a risk or risk our death.
And this is what I think when I’m afraid.

Like a statue in the thick of what’s grown wild,
So many die in life and do not tell you.

You pulled me up. The not-seen was now seen,
The breathlessness of what is possible.
A prisoner of mortality and bone,
Unfairness licks your face with its bitter and hungry tongue.

There are things I would have liked to have done.

When everything you did, you did for us,
Is it fair to ask for any more than that?
The Eden you had left us leaf by leaf?

I feel that I was born to do this duty.
You can forget it was not easy at all.

When love can’t heal you fast enough,
What is deserved gets lost in desert sand,
The angels, unfathomable as a lost language.

I know you love me; never did I doubt.
The grave is no deterrent to a kiss.

Where mourners kiss the curdles of their fear
And the children bow their pretty heads—

Don’t give me pity but the surest way,
The heaven-stairs to the miraculous.

While faith is sturdy with the infinite,
How often does your heart feel sad like this?:
I am, I am, I am, I am, I am.

I am myself, but made anew.
I heard him call my name, and then I rose
To walk the starry beaches of the sky.

In death, how could you be so eloquent?
And like a radio that picks up song,
This or that flat stone flung in adieu,
Made all the words line up and mourn for you.

from Poets Respond
July 12, 2020

__________

Nicole Caruso Garcia: “I read this poem this evening at Fairfield University MFA’s online memorial event, ‘Remembering and Celebrating Dr. Kim Bridgford.’ Kim passed away on June 28, and this week, in preparation for this event in which I would be participating, I tried to find solace by surrounding myself with Kim books. As I engaged with her words, this tribute poem began to manifest. It is a found poem, so every word is Kim’s, including the title. Spanning all her books, the poem is built solely from individual lines from 60 of Kim’s poems, one for each year of her beautiful life. No more than one line is taken from any given poem—with the exception of one extra line, which was too beautiful not to include. The poem is meant to be read as a conversation between the speaker (who could be me, or perhaps any poet whose life she touched), and Kim herself. I offer this poem with love and admiration, and as a testament to the universality of Kim Bridgford’s voice.” (web)

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September 22, 2019

Nicole Caruso Garcia

LOCKDOWN DRILL

As we practice being silent and invisible, a sophomore says,
Would you take a bullet for me, Mrs. Garcia?

In this corner of darkened classroom, teens under furniture,
his inquiry sparks murmurs. Crouching in my dress,

I give him a look that says, You are an insufferable wiseass.
While we wait, in my mind, I try to recite Psalm 23 by heart.

Would you take a bullet for me, Mrs. Garcia? I don’t yet know
that after more drills, future shootings, I soften and see
maybe the boy was scared and deflected fear the best he could.

Though restless, we remain huddled away from the windows.
Fifteen miles down the road is Sandy Hook Elementary.

Over the P.A., the Incident Coordinator gives the all-clear,
delivering us from make-believe that isn’t. I shepherd

students back to Shakespeare, semicolons. Sitting
at their desks, they fill each row, my little ducks.

from Poets Respond
September 22, 2019

__________

Nicole Caruso Garcia: “A designer launched a line of school shooting sweatshirts, complete with bullet holes. Like many people, I was repulsed. Also this week, Sandy Hook Promise launched a timely PSA called ‘Back to School Essentials.’ As an educator who taught for 15 years in the public school system, this week’s news made me meditate on my own experiences of school lockdown drills that have become necessary, how I have seen them affect me, my colleagues, and our students.” (web)

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