the aching snowflakes cling like cold butterflies to the black fingers of dark barren trees reaching upward to the storm-driven sky with no recourse but to bear the onslaught of the storm and the wind’s winter teeth… a tempest. Lynette G. Esposito, MA Rutgers, has been published in Poetry Quarterly,
Rules of the game, Pray thee know, Are many in the beginning And few when you go. Take up thy May flowers And scatter them wide For your funeral is coming After you’ve died. And those who come to pay the last goodbye with sorrow in their hearts and tears
If we put them in boxes, they will hold up better.No, they won’t be able to breathe.They aren’t breathing anyway.We need a stasis box. That way they won’t deteriorate any further.What do you think they do with these long extensions stuck to their shoulders?Do you think they could fly with
“Look what you have done, Daddy. Those people in the little houses can stay in their homes. My friend, Bill, lives there. He is the neatest guy. Can we go see him sometime?” “We have to go to the hospital for your treatment today, Johnny. Maybe.” “Maybe what? They said
He came to us in that odd way A feline knows– A porch seat empty, An opened can of tuna on the step His mind, a cat’s mind, simply seeking warmth and food. This feral creature did not know the generosity of a back rub, the safety of a lap.
Across the western plain silence travels one unsteady foot at a time staggering, twisting, forward until even the birds stop their noisy chatter to watch his coming. The thirsty earth’s dry tongue avoids the travel- weary feet, licks at the pathway puddles but is not satisfied. Silence comes. Still. Shakespeare
Morn at its bright birth Brought light’s sweet forthcoming hue rejecting the dark. Lynette Esposito has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Inwood Indiana, Walt Whitman Project, That Literary Review, North of Oxford, and others. She was married to Attilio Esposito.
Marco had schizophrenia. He thought he was magic. When he walked down the street and was in his normal state, he acted with kindness. He gave the few coins his sister gave to him, to the ones with signs that said “HUNGRY.” He wasn’t hungry. At least not today. At
Dr. Harry Porter ran his long slender surgeon’s fingers through his thick dark hair. He was new to medicine in some ways and not so new in others. He had been doctoring and innovating since before he was ten. The stories he could tell. A neighborhood cat had had its
It was just before sunset every twenty-four hours to the second. She appeared, whispered one word; then was gone. I stood on the hill behind the house for fifteen years just before twilight at that exact same time trying to hear the word. Every time, a bird chirped, a truck