Today’s choice

Previous poems

Salvatore Difalco

 

 

 

Eek, Eyck

No green swell this evening
will detach me from my hat.

No hand held out gingerly
will bend my frozen elbow.

Next door, the goldfinch
on the box turns and chirps.

Hounds outside hunt fox
or men who play God.

My face is not as pale
as yours and yet so pale.

Tell me, is your green
dress of cotton or of wool?

If wool you must beware
of wolves mistaking you.

The little dog on the floor
looks like furry slippers.

Fruit on the window sill
looks ripe enough to eat.

Yet your rosary hangs from
a rusty nail like a noose.

No swell is mine to claim.
My name will not be signed.

Withdraw your pallid hand.
The hounds are at the door.

 

 

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and short story writer currently living in Toronto, Canada. His poems and stories have appeared in many journals.

Ash Bowden

Out again with the pitchfork churning 
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.

Mallika Bhaumik

This is not a frilly, mushy love letter 
to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim on it, 

Jena Woodhouse

Around midnight, the hour when pain
reasserts its dominance, a voice
behind the curtain screening
my bed from the next patient’s:
an intonation penetrating abstract thoughts

Anyonita Green

It wobbles slightly, red wine jelly.

I peer at it, nose close enough 

to smell the iron, the scent of coagulant,

inhaling through slightly parted lips

Soledad Santana

Seen as she’d hung her cranial lantern
from the roof of her step-father’s garden shed,
the parabolic formula was skipped; like two calves, we followed the fence
to the end of the foot-ball pitch.