On:

When Lucian, not yet three, puts his hand in mine.I feel such joy–this boyknots his lifeline to minein a faiththat he can lead me to where ever he wants to go,and I in the same perfect grandma faith,take him there. Lynette G. Esposito, MA Rutgers, has been published in PoetryContinue Reading

On:

The raucous sea, far belowan outgrowth of colorful flowerswafting fragrances into the air,its undulant swelling movementcarries the tide surging toward shore,its waves heaved high into the air,with splashes of briny teal,topped with white whiskers,like an old man with his restlessness. James is a retired professor and octogenarian. He is aContinue Reading

On:

Icarus had told Eeyore they could never be friends‘Eeyore, I am not like you, not like you at all,I have no time for self-pity, no time to stop and stare,I need to build these wings and take to the air. Eeyore had felt sad.He knew that Icarus saw the skyContinue Reading

On:

The Last Train is sleeping now,her keeper has locked her safely away.The last drinkers have left the pub,and are watching the driftas their unsteady walkguides them home.The rain keeps me company,as does the Hedgehogthat slowly crosses my path,he is a spiky footballwith a mind of his own.The last Train driverContinue Reading

On:

not that I clove to youlike a ghostly sheet, love rolled my tongue into an Oor another self, taut as a clothesline, some caricature bent to my likenessor some trucker’s star hitched half to the wind, half to the littlepill slipped under their tongues I’ve worked at Water Street BooksContinue Reading

On:

She stared at me with her marble eyesand knotted my heart so tightit turned to splintered stone—pieces pierced my souland turned it as well.Then—now, I am alone–unmarked graniteabove a grave not yet dug. Lynette G. Esposito, MA Rutgers, has been published in Poetry Quarterly, North of Oxford, Twin Decades, RememberedContinue Reading

On:

The dark nightstreams filaments of her indigo curlsacross the frosty sky.Embellished with stars,loosened locks showerthe late evening with tiny interwoven knotsthreading the curved dome tightly together. The translucent plaits seem to shiverin the crisp air. I walk home not minding my path— look up– watch,waitfor one to unravel or toContinue Reading

On:

not that there’s a reef or fish leftthat figured in the last of our dreams, ate whichever lore the fishermanpitched from the clouds too over our heads & we could count on like gold sheep to sink uswithin an inch of that coldest & deepest of sleeps where even theContinue Reading

On:

With both hands reach into middle schoolUse one thumb to hold off effervescenceWhile the other digs around the backyardLooking for your eye that went missingThat one August after the car accidentWrap the main sheet around your palmThree times then shift your perspectiveWhile you watch your brother sail throughThe finish lineContinue Reading

On:

not that one takes a bowafter every two lines this body mostly waternow spoke of in halves or raise one finger after fourgive ourselves an extra hand after six but one might celebrate quietly after eightthis body mostly air now imperfectly squared I’ve worked at Water Street Books in ExeterContinue Reading