Issue |
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March |
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a poem by Anthony Liccione
nickel on the table
suicide sounds
so sickly good
about now,
but what stops is,
what fears me most is,
stepping through
the doors of death to
unknown dimensions
or frantic demons,
and that boy
always home
on the dot, and
eager to show me
the good grades
he got in class,
looking at the nickel
he found yesterday
on the way home
and gave to me,
i put the gun
down and pour milk
over my fruit loops,
sit and watch
how they expand
and turn soggy
in the bowl,
floating there atop
like loose tires
on a white ocean,
rotating and still,
going nowhere.
so sickly good
about now,
but what stops is,
what fears me most is,
stepping through
the doors of death to
unknown dimensions
or frantic demons,
always home
on the dot, and
eager to show me
the good grades
he got in class,
he found yesterday
on the way home
and gave to me,
i put the gun
down and pour milk
over my fruit loops,
sit and watch
how they expand
and turn soggy
in the bowl,
floating there atop
like loose tires
on a white ocean,
rotating and still,
going nowhere.