S.R. Nickoloff Warren
Author. Editor. Poet. Teacher.
S.R. Nickoloff Warren (she/they) is a 23-year-old writer living in Brooklyn, New York with their dog, Hero. A recent graduate of New York University, they spend their time applying their English, Creative Writing, and Animal Studies degrees to their everyday life through conscious practices and non-stop writing. S.R.’s work has been published in Room to Grow, Quarantine Content, Honeysuckle Media, and Letting Go: A Community Zine—the last of which has raised over $1,000 for abortion resources. When they’re not writing, S.R. enjoys reading, rock climbing, and film photography.
Published in Written Tales Chapbook VIII: The Human Experience
"My Body Remembers You"
My body remembers you
when I don’t want it to.
Tongue against cheek,
eyelash & iris.
Hands gripping knees & sheets.
Clothed in skin,
chained by breath.
Back arched toward God.
He was there, silent beside us.
I try to recall your nervous system—
brain matter, heart chambers.
Your skin is too loud.
I know my throat remembers the way
it was built around your name.
Published in Letting Go: A Community Zine
"Mother Tongue"
Some days look like cerulean water; like plastic
in a pigeon’s stomach. Some days look like
big, black spiders in a standing shower; like smoking weed
in the woods. The sun burns through
the veiny skin of your eyelids, &
You really don’t look good, man.
Looks like you’re gonna be sick.
You wake up to car horns & the world
moving so fast, it moves through you. You wake up to
indigo skies & stars taking the shape of
your ancestors. Other days, you are
Traduttore, traditore.
Nonna has forgotten her mother tongue
somewhere between the Tyrrhenian & the Atlantic.
Your language has been lost on the plate
among the tomatoes & the basil.
Ohio clouds just swallow you
up & spit you out like you taste wrong,
& everybody always has to ask
Ain’t the food in New York just the best?
Most days, it’s hard to stomach,
the way Soho gelato feels like bugs in your mouth, like
white sand on the Mediterranean shore.
Published in news words {press}
"You Never Die"
The doctor’s words fall back into his mouth
& stay there. The taste of bile
lingers in my father’s throat, down the long
carpet of his tongue. I never see you
in that green & white bed—green like snot.
I never see you. You never fail to recognize me.Really, I am still on that trail
in the woods with my friend, looking up
at trees, mouths open, catching bugs. I am still
reading that book you laughed at me for reading.
I am reading slowly so you never stop laughing.
I am standing in the kitchen watching you cook. Everything
is yours—pot & pan, carrot & bone. I want to fold
beneath the careful caress of your hands;
I want you to make me.Days unpass. Your hair floats
from the floor to your head & rests there.
You breathe, & I watch you sleep,
not imagining you could ever be far from me,
so I turn my back to you.You don’t say the hard things. You don’t
sigh, don’t sit us down. You don’t leave.
The mass shrinks until you no longer feel it..
Published work
Interned at Honeysuckle Magazine & Quarantine Content (The Q).
Edited for NYU's student journal.Articles available below.
Contact
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