the domestic lesbian

A Disappearing Virtual Poetry Chapbook

by Shannon Mcnicholas

I. Building

How To Grow Joy

I.

I planted the smallest seeds

four months ago, plugged sprouts

into the tough garden’s earth at equinox,

all for this moment; the first ripe tomato

straight off the vine.

Pink Brandywine

Warm, plump, sugary, soft.

I’ve heard it said, store-bought tomatoes

taste of sadness.

II.

She planted the smallest seeds

eight months ago, called

in the midst of my depression, early winter,

said she’d changed her mind. 

Nearly two years ago, she told me,

“a relationship won’t work.” Now she says,

”I messed up.” She holds, feeds, encourages,

loves. Together, we’ve grown.

I’ve heard it said, mistakes make

for the best stories.

Your Pieces Fit Into Mine

I asked you if we could paint the second bedroom

yellow. Together, we settled on “creamy oat.”

Just bright enough to spark joy.

You encourage my yellow paint, my pink hotdogs, my

floral stencils. You love my ability to find the perfect lamps

at goodwill, say my décor fits in perfectly with yours.

Our hearts are two boxes of the same puzzle.

They work fine separately, and the pieces can be

mixed to fit with each other.

Together, we are complex,

complimentary, effervescent.

To the Woman Who Feels in Colors I Haven't Named Yet

We have tattoos from the same book.

The ink predates the crossing of our paths.

You lived “The Secret Life of Bees,” I got lost in it.

Today we swam in the creek along Hemlock Trail.

I told you, “Where the copperheads lie” would be

a good title for your next book of poems.

Your genuine smile is crooked, both sides

equally beautiful, just off-kilter. Mine is so large

that it displaces my cheeks, obscuring my vision.

Today, I almost stepped on a lying copperhead.

You sat on the creek’s natural steps and scooted down

‘till you found a spot slick enough to slide.

Later, we mused that my mother had a different

word than “lightning bug” when we held them in our

palms, picking them out of the grass behind the house.

Your mother sniffed white powder, mine pushed me

to run “The Walk Against Drugs” leftover from the

War on Drugs. We ended up in the same place.

Our own indiscretions are in the past. We build

our history in our house, together, on years

of imperfection.

I Don’t Call You Pretty

I’ve been flipping through a dusty dictionary

that sits unbound on the shelf, scanning lines

to find your word.

The lines on your face – I have not seen them

live so comfortably on another.

The cracks in your teeth tell a story.

Yours is a body soft, lived in.

It’s lines and cracks and parts off-kilter demonstrate

light, story, strength, whimsy, comfort.

I couldn’t find your word,

so I wrote this poem.

Routine

Sometimes I write poems.

Sometimes I write grocery lists between my poems.

            lunch box peppers

            whole milk

Sometimes I write cards to my girlfriend.

Sometimes she frames my cards & hangs them on our bedroom wall.

            chicken sausage

            onions (2)

Sometimes I fall asleep without taking my meds.

In these cases, she wakes me up with water and my pills in her hand.

            baby potatoes

            tangerines

Sometimes I’m too depressed to get out of bed.

She brings me coffee, sits with me & softly encourages wakefulness.

            turkey lunchmeat

            granola (gluten free)

Sometimes I make a grocery list,

screaming across the house to ask her if we already have the ingredients.

II. Bracing

I Want My Skin to Tell a Story

I have wrinkles on my forehead,

the occasional white-grey hair,

no thoughts to wash brown

dye into the strands to keep

them lush and young.

Yes, it may be absurd to discuss

my aged features prior to thirty.

I never imagined this for myself.

I’ve heard age brings resilience.

I want the lines on my

temples to deepen.

I want my breasts to sag.

The Junkyard Out Back

Late winter, you chopped knotweed into pieces to burn.

You tilled the land so we could eat our own fruit,

drilled bent, rusty gutters into our house’s siding,

filled it with rich soil, only for me to grumpily plant 

strawberry roots into the small crevice, mid-night,

feeling for spacing and depth with gentle palms and intuition.

You told me what a good job I did.

They grew.

Previous owners left broken glass,

dilapidated bird houses, rusty tomato cages

in overgrown grass to decompose.

As you tilled, pieces of their wreckage floated to the surface. 

I dug holes to plant vegetables, bare hands,

tough, clay-loam ground,

only to slice my finger on a crusty orange nail.

These plants, this food, has evolved for thousands

of years to survive the elements,

learning to grow around sharp shards of glass

that could easily cut their fragile roots.

The Air Sirens Keep Sounding

Fayette County PA

Usually I’d say it was a false alarm

I’d say, maybe a storm is coming,

maybe we need to get under the tarp,

under the tent, maybe in the car.

I wonder why there would be a

threat this far into the wilderness.

I wonder what nuclear power has its

eyes on Pittsburgh or maybe the

FBI headquarters in Bridgeport, WV.

Now I look up towards the swinging

sky through the lightning bugs, imagining

the whole forest lighting up, fiery leaves raining

down on us that no longer exist, imagining

fungi protruding from the ground below us

aglow like lightning bugs.

III. Bolstering

A Medication of Sorts

Grandmother’s words rang through my mind,

“Treat it like a job. Treat it like work.”

I want a long happy marriage.

Three days into the argument, of which I do

not now remember the content, you suggested

we try a format meant for conflict.

I grumbled the first few tries.

We worked through prompts each day,

then each week.

They remind me of medication—

hard to remember, a pain in the ass,

helpful, healthy.

Pride

My parents and girlfriend celebrated, watched

drag queens, wore queer neon shirts, fully

unaware of the folks sixty miles down the

road climbing into trees, onto rooftops, stranded

on tables at Dunkin Donuts awaiting

rescue in what still feels like my hometown.

No warning, no help, no air sirens, no blaring

phone alarms, just rushing water spilling over

creeks, into homes, into lives already devastated

by industry sent overseas, by cultural amnesia.

I didn’t hear the news ‘till two days later.

While I sat on a swing set painting

rainbows on my girlfriend’s face, living

for community, my friends in Wheeling,

living because of community.

Photo of Shannon Mcnicholas

BIO: Shannon McNicholas is a social worker in West Virginia. California-born, Shannon decided to settle in the hills of Appalachia. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, gardening, cooking,  and writing. She lives with her partner and cat in Morgantown.