Nebula: Poems by Helena Lutchman

Image: Pixabay.com remixed
Image: Pixabay.com remixed


I would
crack open the shell of your being
and dive in the nebula of what I am to you —
Its hues, its consistency
its concentrations and gaps
dust, gas, energy.

I would
pick up all of it
and spread it out on my ceiling as
a painting or map
creating a sequence out of elusiveness

and I
would stop asking so many questions
and I
would stop being so hungry for words
and I —
could lie down and stare at the capture of me within you
allowing myself to forget that it is ever changing
and resists being understood.



“When an egg in the ovary fails to be released, it forms a small fluid-filled sac, a cyst. In some cases,
that cyst gets ruptured, causing pain and abnormal bleeding.”

What could be more yours
than your blood
—until it is shed?
What more intimate
than what flows
between your legs?

Did the body purposefully chose
the womanly solitude of bleeding?
The baffled, half-muttered
“What the fuck!” on noticing
the stains?

Did it give up altogether,
refused collaboration
and start expiring?

Or was it angry,
so angry that it
turned into a kamikaze
destroying part of itself
to hurt me all.



Her docile body lays
at the mercy of the artist’s hands,
lullabied by the soft murmur
of the machine’s buzz .

The needle frenetically
punctures the skin,
crafting lines, swirls and colors,
causing jolts of pain to emerge
only to be drowned
in the triumphant endorphin rush.

Protesting droplets of blood
sometimes surface, bubbling life
at war with the ink.

Unmoved —
he wipes it off and continues,
absorbed by the completion
of the living canvas.



I would be
rosemary or thyme,
safely contained
between brownish pages

among carefully sketched
timidly coloured
illustrations of botany—

glorified through details
like the mud on my roots and
the wrinkles on my leaves

far from the malicious sun
and the wild winds;
sheltered beneath
the dainty French cursive
fines herbes sauvages



you swallowed the moon
and it crept down your throat,
bounced in your stomach-pond
to settle there
its cold gleam
permeating your fibrous self
until you dissolved—
became nothing but light
and you knew then
you were you
and you were safe.



during one of those nights
when the pain shoots through my body like fireworks
I murmured to my heart
“See how mighty you are, little thing
as long as you keep going, so will my whole life.
And if the world gives you a hundred reasons to fall,
we will find a hundred and one reasons to love it.”

but last night
my heart thumped a little more softly
and like a child tugging at his mother’s sleeve
said “I want to go home, please let me.” —

except “home” scares me.

Poems © Helena Lutchman
Image: Pixabay.com remixed

About the author

Helena Lutchman

Helena Lutchman is a 23-year-old Mauritian who works as Communication Officer in an NGO. She attended “L’Atelier d’Écriture” at l’Institut Français de Maurice for more than a year— a creative writing workshop which encouraged her to develop a more focused approach to writing, eventually allowing some of her poems to be published online and in print. In 2017, she was named co-winner of the Édouard Maunick Poetry Prize for her poem “Louise Baby”.

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