Category: Poetry

As children, our faces
are often mistaken for suns,
our knees scar the earth
like grass fires; in the secret
hiding places of our hearts
our blood burns, and our
whispers shimmer like noon.

We arrive as adults, noses
dripping with sun-block,
lurching through the heat
to the nearest bar, our hearts
beating so loudly we can
no longer whisper.

 

 

As appeared in Leaning into the Mountain, Fooliar Press, Toronto, 2006.

the strange, clicking sounds
of my laptop.
the three dollars and fifteen cents
in library fines.
the big, black dog
shitting
on my lawn:

I savour it:
the slow drip
of bills
the trickle of Freon
through refrigerator coils

night
was barbed with stillness
its objects
armed with geometry

and now
the relief
of an unsteady table
the loose corner of my robe
slipping from my knee,
the delicate creep
of ants
across my kitchen floor

 

 

As appeared in Lichen, Vol. 7 No. 2, Whitby, ON, 2005.

copyright 2004 Rocco de Giacomo

 
Head east on Broadway.
Make a right at the Safeway.
Keep going until you get to the intersection with a Superlube.
Turn left.
This road turns into Highway 20. Keep right. Get off at the first exit.
Follow onto Goldwheat. Then to River Road.
House number 330. The red one.
On the right. The wide driveway. The vegetable garden.
The rope mattress. The part-time actor explaining
everything. The enormous kitchen stove. The wooden cradle. Winter
hanging over each word like a millstone. Summer beckoning like a faded serigraph
on the wall; the wildflowers on the table stunned with silence. Your hands
remain there, poised over a piano key; this is the wake of someone
you knew; or an office Halloween party: everyone smiling
as if into a flurry, red-eared, endearing ourselves
to our self-effacement: the soft eradication
of one more dream into the details
of waking.
 

 

A version of “Louis Riel” first appeared in Prism International, Vol. 45 No.1,Vancouver, BC, 2006.

I remember
an open field
and my mother
she touches my shoulder
and points
she says -look up
you can tell if its a hawk
by the curls in its wings

I am being carried
with slow drifting sight
from the curl end
of her voice
into the sun

and
after 10 years
of travelling
the height of dreams
along the span of day and night
I recede from the backseat window
finding my self
curled
in the final
feather end
of her voice
holding me again
in open fields

 

As appeared in Descant, Vol 30, No 4, Winter 1999