Nichole Turnbloom

Silence Is a Wall Furnace

Your tongue clicks, heat waves rise from 
the green of your scarf. Between us, a window
laced with iron and your hand on the arm 
of the chair keeps me from turning towards 

the altercation between self and self. Outside, 
red tulips float upright on the water, 
across the lawn are two blue doors, handleless. 
Your eyes are the golden-brown of lions, 

voracious and confident, your thick paws 
walk all over me in my sleep. I lift my shirt 
to show you the bruises and your eyebrows 
become the line of a tightrope walker as the clouds 

pass over the sun and shivering we are holding 
between us the secret of my whereabouts 
like misplaced keys. If I could just remember which 
hole I buried them or you could get me a 

replacement—is that not what healing is?—
then I could find a way out of the mouth 
of the lapis whale and back to the place where I 
knew better than to speak my thoughts—it is
 
always better to paint them, even if they do not 
resemble the face modeled after. Somewhere else, 
another county perhaps, I would be entitled 
to a decent sandwich on toasted sourdough, and 

a bowl of hot soup. Your perfume sticks to everything 
and swimming in musk and squid ink of your 
dress I imagine kissing the impartial walls and 
then smearing the lip stains until they shine like brass.  

after ‘The Conversation,’ by Henri Matisse (1908-1912); Picasso said the women Matisse painted never looked like the models. 

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Nichole Turnbloom is a poet, yoga therapist, and workshop facilitator. She currently works for a nonprofit where she provides individual and small groups sessions to those affected by trauma and violence. She has an MFA in poetry and has completed additional training through the Institute for Poetic Medicine. You can read her work in Acumen, Journal of Westbrae Literary Group, The Branches, Spillwords, and is forthcoming in IWWG’s 2025 Anthology Write Forward and various other venues.