Poems

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Poem for the Dead (Including My Mom)

Since we’ll likely never be together again
anywhere but here—what season
were you most alive in?
Is there morning or color where you are?
Do you have freedom? If so, how are you using it?
Would you rather be a bird or an angel?
Permanent day or never-ending night?
If there are hours, when are your most difficult?
Do you know who you were
before this? Why or why not?
And now that there’s fire—
are you in Heaven or Hell?
More time or less?
Do you still feel happiness?
Would you return?
To Earth, this dream, or anywhere else?

Nicole Tallman is a poet, writer, and editor born and raised in Michigan. She is the author of five poetry collections, including The Velvet Room, forthcoming in April 2027, and Dolce Vita/Let There Be a Little Light (Bottlecap Press, 2025).

About Nicole Tallman

Themes

Death

Mourning

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More by this poet

Middle School Dance

To all the boys
who asked me
to dance and to
all the boys to whom
I said yes and to
all the steps we took
right and left and to
the one who bought
me a corsage of roses
to match my dress and to
the one who asked me
if I wanted a kiss and to
the one I kissed even though
I didn’t want to kiss and to
the one who kissed the girl
I really wanted to kiss—
I wish my wishes were kisses.

Nicole Tallman

2025

[Once a lady read my aura.]

Once, a lady read my aura. I thought
she’d say it was blue, but I was misled. She said:
You are a sea of violets, an amethyst
of chrysanthemums, an angel in the bluest of red.
I didn’t believe her and went Ouija. Started
seeing a dark spirit instead. When all the good
spirits have vanished, you too will be fooled
by the dead. Please don’t look straight at them.
Look at the clear lake instead. The moon some nights
shines violet, and that’s when it swallows your head.

Nicole Tallman

2025

[I book us a room in a hotel named after a famous poet.]

I book us a room in a hotel named after a famous poet.
It reminds me of an ex I thought I’d forgotten.
It has a balcony that faces the street.
In the morning, the sound of plates wakes us.
You bring me coffee in bed and an apple.
We watch the city wake up below us.
A man carries a bushel of hyacinth.
A woman cries to someone on the phone.
We dress and go downstairs for breakfast.
I speak French to the hostess and remember
I have another voice.
It’s the one I use when I pretend I’m someone else.
She seats us next to a couple in love.

Nicole Tallman

2025

Poems

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Poem for the Dead (Including My Mom)

More by this poet

Middle School Dance

[Once a lady read my aura.]

[I book us a room in a hotel named after a famous poet.]

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