by Nick Alti
From here the warmth of the fire speaks loudly of an earlier home,
somewhere with chrysanthemums for stars and if you hold up your hand
to the light, you’ll darken. Walk this path passing a raccoon’s head
somebody nailed to the trunk of an oak & the acrylic dialogue
box painted tediously above its slack-jawed mouth reads I never
learned to ride a bike. Look here you sufferer, you infinite fish,
I’m not the pond but the stick lying diagonally across a pile of other sticks.
I’ve never been water, though I’ve been close, though I was there when
the moon expanded, grew hair & howled back at us. Before you left
you spoke gentle of the earth. I held, three-fingered, a green thread of your
shirt. These cicadas, they’re falling dead. They are the heartbeats of seasons.
Nick Alti exists as a bartender in his hometown of Stevensville, Michigan, until he moves to Holland (MI) where he will continue to exist as a bartender. Recent publications include Birds Piled Loosely, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Newfound. He reads poetry manuscripts and helps edit novels for New Issues Press. He’s currently trying to get into grad school, so wish him some luck. If you’d like, you can contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.