‘A Letter to Wellbutrin’, ‘Kinda Woman’, ‘Body Cover’ & ‘Tree Funeral’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

“You so winningly said, ‘People come first’ meaning before the writing. You forced me to say the truth.

he writing comes first…this is my way of mastering experience.” -Anne Sexton in a letter to her psychiatrist, Dr. Chase

A Letter to Wellbutrin

If I don’t walk the long hallway,

nor take the cellar stairs,

If I don’t coat myself in ashes,

Will I still be a poet?

If I remove the rosy glasses,

see things sharp and clear,

If I live by the T-chart,

Will I still be a poet?

If I cannot feel the petals,

the velvet of the air,

If I cannot smell the sunset,

Will I still be a poet?

If I step away from the guardrail,

steer well before the turn,

If I take the keys from the ignition,

Will I still be a poet?

If I pull on the lambskin,

sheath myself from pleasure and pain,

If all the lines are measured,

Will I still be a poet?

Kinda Woman

I’m a wake up and lift the blinds kinda woman,

a make the bed before I’m out of it kinda woman,

a finished five tasks before you even get started kinda woman,

a move over I’ll do it myself kinda woman.

You’re a make pyramids out of empty cans kinda guy,

a save it up till the last minute kinda guy,

an hours of research on a truck you’ll never buy kinda guy,

a spontaneous, pull the trigger, let’s see how it goes kinda guy.

I’m a take me to the water kinda woman,

a give me space, but don’t leave kinda woman,

a clear my head with your voice, kinda woman,

a take charge of me, fist full of my curls kinda woman.

You’re a spend all day on the couch with the dogs kinda guy,

a gotta listen to music while you’re cooking kinda guy,

a flip the omelet with one hand kinda guy,

an I don’t know, let’s find out kinda guy. 

I’m the chaos, you’re the order.

Or is it the other way around?

I’d get it done but there’d be no place to put it.

I organize my life with post-Its and planners,

But where would I go without you?

Maybe you’re the planner after all —

the dreamer, the believer, the faithful one.

Maybe I’m just a mound of raw edges,

like the leftover yarn from 1,000 intended sweaters.

There’s something. There’s something there worth a damn—

Right? I'm a damn kinda woman,

a plain materials, set to be something kinda woman.

Gonna take more than Post-its notes to make sense

of all that’s swimming around in my head,

doing laps. The front crawl. The butterfly.

Make sense of it.

You’re my translator.

Tame my thoughts like you tame my curls.

Keep being my turn it into something kinda guy,

so, I can be an I surrender kinda woman. Finally.

“Can you think of any laws that give the government

 power to make decisions about the male body?” - Sen. Kamala Harris

“I’m not thinking of any right now, Senator” - Supreme Court Nominee, Brett Cavanaugh

Body Cover

My body has scars,

but they're all a secret,

not the ones you can celebrate.

and name tiger stripes and battle wounds,

there are no stretch lines nor C-section marks, 

my slices cannot be seen but

they rest all over.

Fingertips soaked in the acid of pubic must,

wrists viced and stormed,

biceps pinned,

eyes pierced,

breasts squeezed and pinched and mangled,

my womb is scraped clean.

Inside me lives a thousand cuts,

beats and blows,

ripped open and scooped out,

burned,

torched.

My body is a cemetery with no stones,

blanketed over with blades of grass,

a swing set and

an IOU. 

Tree Funeral

I’m watching the death of the trees next door.

Giants converted to mulch,

Fifty rings exposed,

Severed and mutilated.

I think of the love it took to grow, the courage.

The years of adaptation.

Adjusting to floods that fell from the sky

winds that turned and bent, gale

She withstood it.

Rooted down deeper.

Reached from within.

Then was crumbled up like a bad essay and

Thrown in the bin.

All that she endured, undone by a man.

Like always. 

Nickie DeSardo is a poet, writer, and activist whose work explores identity, love, heartbreak, and social justice. With a master’s in education and linguistics, she is pursuing an MFA in Writing at WCSU, focusing on poetry and feature journalism. Her published works reflect her experiences as a feminist, mother, and advocate for change. Nickie lives on Connecticut’s shoreline with her partner, two children, and their dogs, blending artistry and purpose in her deeply confessional writing.