Amy Soricelli
Showing posts with label Amy Soricelli. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Amy Soricelli. Show all posts
Breathless Vision
Amy Soricelli
she swears she sees God dressed up in a tight raincoat hovering over the sand-swept platform;
she does think to herself what an odd place to drop leaves in a pile by the garbage can -
and wonders if this person - who looks like God - notices this odd place and maybe for a minute-
that fleeting kind of minute -
she can share some moment of silly harmless recognition with some stranger -
some God-like stranger -
and that this standing long hard on this platform with the rocks piercing her eyelashes like some nasty ghetto snow -
would make sense of things -
or at least not make things seem as terribly fucked up as they do sometimes when she shares the glass pine needle streets with
all the lost boys from high school who kept cats in cages and had grandmothers who never kept candy in jars
or were ready for you to come over -
but the kind who spent too much time with their hair in blue sections of dye or who whispered secrets
that had no meaning but for the hollow sound it makes as you roll it around in your mouth long after everyone has gone home and you're left with that mothball smell
and reminder that God does not wear raincoats or stand beside you watching the same sky without a word.
she swears she sees God dressed up in a tight raincoat hovering over the sand-swept platform;
she does think to herself what an odd place to drop leaves in a pile by the garbage can -
and wonders if this person - who looks like God - notices this odd place and maybe for a minute-
that fleeting kind of minute -
she can share some moment of silly harmless recognition with some stranger -
some God-like stranger -
and that this standing long hard on this platform with the rocks piercing her eyelashes like some nasty ghetto snow -
would make sense of things -
or at least not make things seem as terribly fucked up as they do sometimes when she shares the glass pine needle streets with
all the lost boys from high school who kept cats in cages and had grandmothers who never kept candy in jars
or were ready for you to come over -
but the kind who spent too much time with their hair in blue sections of dye or who whispered secrets
that had no meaning but for the hollow sound it makes as you roll it around in your mouth long after everyone has gone home and you're left with that mothball smell
and reminder that God does not wear raincoats or stand beside you watching the same sky without a word.
State of Emergency
by Amy Soricelli
There is always a long line here. Starting from the broken sky
its siren screams from the door/mountains of glass assembled in garbage bags.
She needs the cheese that looks like melted sun. Large block in slick plastic
peels back like a layer of ice.
Her four boys tumble out of their skin/create a city from the bricks
she carries in her pocket to back off the grabby hands;
the subways carry the grabby hands tunnels deep into the frosty night air.
Overhead fans whir whir she hears them nudge her -no sleeping.
She pulls tight her needle fingernails/under her skin she feels them when the trains move.
She has nothing to giver/her mouth wide open like a cloud.
She travels - a nomad through those cars swaying her hips holding onto the slick
greasy pole for balance.
She sees someone drew a heart on the bricks/two loud names in red twirled up
fancy like licorice wheels.
The older boy points to the man who looks like Jesus Christ sleeping by the fire escape/his beard
capturing outside screams/dust landing in his hair like wishes.
The shuffle of feet one in front of the other/dagger eyes deep down into shameless pockets -
she fingers her last ring circling around her bony fingers like a vulture.
It twirls and twirls like the deep ballerina memory of someone else.
The boys flop onto chairs/sneaker toes folded underneath their bodies/sniffling back
the hours of missed school in pinwheel sounds from slamming doors; someones
upstairs fight with barking dogs/sounds of plates crashing. No one is surprised - it feels
like home.
They settle into the sound like a coat and wait their turn.
There is always a long line here. Starting from the broken sky
its siren screams from the door/mountains of glass assembled in garbage bags.
She needs the cheese that looks like melted sun. Large block in slick plastic
peels back like a layer of ice.
Her four boys tumble out of their skin/create a city from the bricks
she carries in her pocket to back off the grabby hands;
the subways carry the grabby hands tunnels deep into the frosty night air.
Overhead fans whir whir she hears them nudge her -no sleeping.
She pulls tight her needle fingernails/under her skin she feels them when the trains move.
She has nothing to giver/her mouth wide open like a cloud.
She travels - a nomad through those cars swaying her hips holding onto the slick
greasy pole for balance.
She sees someone drew a heart on the bricks/two loud names in red twirled up
fancy like licorice wheels.
The older boy points to the man who looks like Jesus Christ sleeping by the fire escape/his beard
capturing outside screams/dust landing in his hair like wishes.
The shuffle of feet one in front of the other/dagger eyes deep down into shameless pockets -
she fingers her last ring circling around her bony fingers like a vulture.
It twirls and twirls like the deep ballerina memory of someone else.
The boys flop onto chairs/sneaker toes folded underneath their bodies/sniffling back
the hours of missed school in pinwheel sounds from slamming doors; someones
upstairs fight with barking dogs/sounds of plates crashing. No one is surprised - it feels
like home.
They settle into the sound like a coat and wait their turn.
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