"View from the House of Henry Briscoe Thomas, Baltimore" (1841) via the Metropolitan Museum of Art
by Amy Soricelli
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When I point to the highway from our window
you don’t think that’s it. There is more to the eyes and under the hood of our cars. You stopped buying the newspaper. We have no fish to wrap in it, no words to leave dying in the bones. We listen to the Beatles when I eat lunch and we sit breaking cheese into small squares. We don’t point to the dead person on the television who isn’t dead yet. Sometimes on the days when there is no light or sun and the curtains stay open or never got closed, we can believe it isn’t inside with us. You asked for a book of opposites; for pages of right and wrong, voting booths and mail slots. You ask about dinner and how the sun feels through the window. It feels like war. |
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Amy (she/her) has been published in The Westchester Review, Literati Magazine, The Muddy River Poetry Review, Rumblefish Quarterly, The Bronx Magazine, Glimpse Poetry, Dancing Girl Press, and others. She’s been nominated for the 2019 Aspen Words Emerging Writer’s Fellowship and twice for Best of the Net.
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