Two Poetry Pieces
Remi Recchia From a Porch on Elm Street I forgot my childhood zip code before kissing streetlamps instead of you, incense within a candle. Your number a silhouette against my cheekbones, two birdfeeders carved empty on your grandfather’s porch, glistening. I asked your shadow to stay and it told me there was light; I asked it where and it turned into a raven. I melted my neighbors’ swing set into ash at moonrise. A Colosseum birthed itself. I thought your mother was a ghost for the first twelve years of loving you. And then she spoke through the kitchen side door and you swallowed eggs from a jar, yellow frothing. Finding Charlotte Smith on a Lantern to Nowhere You told me my handshake was weak when I stitched scars across your forehead, counting beats & measures against my throat. Candied cough syrup disarmed you & the stove – you left the light on all night, I watched the house burn up like gingerbread, through you in heat, under charcoal paintings that only work if you’re sober. |
|

About the Author: Remi Recchia is an emerging poet and an MFA candidate in Poetry at Bowling Green State University. He has been published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Cutbank Literary Magazine’s "All Accounts & Mixture" series, The Birds We Piled Loosely, The Blotter, The Laureate, and The Poems That Ate Our Ears and has a poem forthcoming in Ground Fresh Thursday Press.