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Anthony Lusardi
on a dead deer
the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting. an eye fixed on a sea of green beeches. only one of your antlers unbroken. pointing up to the mountains.
does your herd still graze on daffodil meadows? does your doe stand alone. waiting for your grunt call? does your fawn know that it must face the wolves and game hunters alone?
eventually. the vultures will pick off what’s left. eventually. the roadkill wagon will carry you off. or eventually . . . you’ll be light enough for the rain to wash away.
yet now. your fawn dares itself to cross the river. its head and antler stubs. just above the rapids.
highway traffic
above the tree line
the mountain view
Anthony Lusardi
winter sunset— how he says “young” after telling his long age Anthony Lusardi lives in Rockaway, NJ, where he works with the night crew at a Costco store. His poetry has been published in various prints, including Modern Haiku, The...
Daya Bhat
* first rain- puddling up to gather the sky * midnight parade on my wall, insomniac car lights * still holding her own among the who’s who - crescent moon Daya Bhat from Bangalore, India enjoys writing free verse and short form...
Richa Sharma
cold saturday i thank him for nothing * mother's house where i was born still moonlit * anniversary the missing years in our collage * where wildflowers are caretakers unvisited house * childless spring in my parking space an abandoned tricycle *...