by Amy Soricelli
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.
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.