Nelly Reckinger is a rising junior at the ALR-High School in Luxembourg. She pursues a STEM-track at high school. She plans on studying medicine. Since childhood, she has loved to write and to read, initially mostly in German and French. Then, she learned English two years ago and fell in love with poetry and literature. She enjoys playing sports, watching comedic movies, hanging out with friends and dancing in the rain.

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This poem is inspired by the protagonist Starr’s code-switching from the book The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas.

Mimicry

A scientific term describing
adaptations animals use
to merge with their surroundings

This includes us, the human race
The only difference is:
Octopuses and insects have one
environment to blend into—
water or land

Humans carry multiple
versions of themselves,
pressed into one body, one brain
Our complexity is always praised,
rarely questioned
I wonder why

Every second: new emotions
Riding a dopamine high
Hair messy, clothes thrown together
One second, a radiant smile
The other, a heartbreaking sob

The notebook is packed.
The list is complete.
My hair is tied back.
My clothes are monochrome.
A polite smile stays on my face,
not reaching my eyes.

What the fuck?
I love you.

That would be great.
Would you mind if I…?

Now I understand
why simplicity dies
why complexity thrives

Different places demand different skins
Places where politeness is required
Places where it’s not enough to be yourself
Places where you are too much
Places where you can truly be yourself

So many places, one personality
is an equation that doesn’t make sense

So you adapt in order to survive
Batesian mimicry
Müllerian mimicry
Methods to prevent being eaten

But you want to be eaten
You want to attract the flies
Without them, you starve
Stomach growling for love

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This poem is inspired by the feeling of having to shrink down to accommodate others.

Haunted House

I open the door.
A ghost’s breath
makes me shiver.

I enter.
It’s silent, dead
quiet.

I climb the stairs.
One step creaks. I freeze.
A ghostly “shhh” scolds me.

My heart beats.
My hands tremble,
cold as the grave.

My voice falters.
I ask, “Hello?”

I listen to the silence.
No response—
not even a sound.

Another presence lingers—
not human,
not alive.

Deep in my bones,
I know
there is somebody.
Alone? Not alone.
Seen or unseen?
That’s the question.

I may not be alone,
but in this haunted house,
I am sure as hell unseen.

I shrink myself
not to bother anyone.

No yelling.
No laughing.
No running.

Maybe this hidden
creature is a ghost,
created by behavior,
nourished by habit,
a parasite in my head.

Maybe
I am the ghost.

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This poem is inspired by the ride on the Staten Island ferry and the way the waves crashed against the boat.

Mother and Child

The waves,
playing with the ship’s patience,
devour with a child’s greed the ship’s outline.

The ship,
with her motherly discipline,
wraps on the knuckles of his cocky offspring.

Ashamed, the waves shy away.
White and foamy their excuse.

Cleverer than before,
the waves retire to the coast,
visiting their long forgotten aunt.
The land welcomes them,
brings them seashells and wood.
After a while, the aunt says
“Your mom will miss you.”
The child protests fervently,
crying itself to sleep in secret.

After a little space,
the two happily reunite,
the mother longing for her beloved child.
She embraces it feverishly.
The waves, happily returned in motherly protection,
recover their vivid spark.
Playing and toying with the patience
until the ship says “Stop it!”
The waves retrieve and apologize
“We will learn from our mistakes”

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This poem is inspired by subway-stories and is written from the perspective of the train.

Not Naive

Rattling through this dusty tub,
shrill and fast, the moaning wheels
let sparks flare up.
Exhausted from their tedious journey,
they cry their horror out loud.

Rotten rats are mingled with foulish fish.
A few drops of golden rain drip
from the graffiti-covered walls.

The abyss of human souls being
their daily business,
The wheels put light-proof blindfolds on.
having seen the worst and more,
their minds paint images
exceeding the reality by their
ingenuity of unscrupulousness
of the mortal minds.

With time, threads dissolve.
The mask becomes see-through.
The workers blink rapidly.
Pupils decrease in the ashy irises.

Wheels take in their environment,
eyes darting rapidly around.

A man,
spilling this blood on the glutted concrete,
yells “But I loved you!”

A woman,
towering over him,
knife in one hand, loveletter in the other,
rages “I thought so too!”

The wheels avert their gaze.
looking for new material for their blindfold.
“I knew it!” triumphs one wheel.
“You knew it!” acknowledge the others.
A child loses his teddy bear.
It enters the subway, crying.
A witness captures the scene.
The victim finds his way back.

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This poem is inspired by the atmosphere and a wooden table in the poet's house.

Fossils of Life

Surrounded by books.
Some new, some antique.
I revel in the smell of dust.
Knowledge and creativity
linger in these wooden shelves.
Low whispers replace ambitious silence.
The trees outside swing in the wind,
Their leaves rustle conspiratorily.
My thoughts run away without direction.

A thud on the wooden table,
cold and unforgiving under my finger.
Amber made of viscous honey,
enwraps insects.
Prove of a distant era.

Brilliant in the sun, opaque in the shadow,
I try to scratch beneath the surface.

How did they die? Did they suffer?
Did they drown in the suffocating resin?
Did they gasp for fresh air?

This bee looks frightened,
She saw it coming.
Was she paralyzed by fear?
Did she remember the last
sweet nectar from the peony?

This centipede curled up.
Did he accept his fate?
Did he imagine the safe arms
of his mother facing death?

This dragonfly spreads her wings.
Where was her safe harbor?
Did the resin weigh down
her frail and delicate fairywings?

The thuds stop.
I look up, I look down.
The amber disappeared.

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Where Home Is

I sit on the bench,
I hold coffee in one hand,
I have a croissant in the other.
The sun shines in my face.

My skin heats up.
My thoughts stop.
My pulse slows down.

The birds are chirping,
some shriller, some deeper.

A red-wattled lapwing asks,
“Did we do it?”
Or is it an anvil?

Deer run through the bushes.
Birds fly up, getting out of the way.

The sun goes down.
The glow worms come out,
lighting the way.
I stand up, slowly.
I wiggle my toes.
I need to get home
before it gets dark.