April 9, 2024

National Poetry Month 2024: 3 Poems by Salvatore Difalco

National Poetry Month 2024: 3 Poems by Salvatore Difalco

National Poetry Month continues on strong with long time FC contributor Salvatore Difalco. Difalco has proven himself in the past to be a master of imagery, and he delivers once again with these touching poems. Take a look, you won’t be disappointed!

Bleeding From The Ears 

I feel like the moon is attacking me tonight 

under the crosshatched shade of palm trees, 

my amnesia an impenetrable white wall. 

If I see stars they do not shine above, 

they shine inside my head, among its clouds. 

I wear a rumpled sheet, my clothes 

and shoes nowhere to be found. 

The palm trees sigh like sleepy aunts, 

but do not speak of the laguna and the black 

surrounding hills. Shapes advance 

and withdraw in the charcoal darkness,  

accompanied by flashes of eyes. 

Nothing comes to me, nothing, no  

name, home, friends, family, who is 

my mother? I look at the moon. 

It moves closer and closer, I hear it 

growling, grinding. Was it always this way? 

Was it always on to me? I fear  

we’ve done this bit before, me 

and the freaking moon—me with no 

mind, the moon with a mind bent  

on making me howl at it.

Possible Lives 

Suppose your life 

went another way. 

You turned right instead of left. 

You kept to yourself, 

only spoke when necessary. 

You suffered from 

few migraines and bouts 

of insomnia. You 

practiced meditation. 

Your children grew up 

to be doctors. Your wife 

respected you and never 

stopped loving you 

and you never strayed. 

Your dogs never died, 

your mother lived to one hundred, 

your cousin Marge recovered 

from her heart attack. 

You spent much time together 

at her cottage recalling  

the shared happy days  

of your youth. Uncle Frank 

and Aunt Celestina went  

strong into their nineties.  

Your sister married and  

had five kids. The optimism  

of the twentieth century  

persisted in the twenty-first 

as we moved step by  

step toward a more 

harmonious, fulfilling  

and egalitarian future. 

But the migraines persisted 

and children never entered  

the picture. Marge died 

as did the mom and  

Uncle Frank and Aunt  

Celestina, and my sister 

never married and lost 

heart in the end. We still 

connect now and then 

but live far apart, she  

in her head and me 

in that promising past. 

Eiffel Tower Made of Matchsticks

You stand on the other side of the glass.

Nothing is solid, all abstracted in your eyes—

everything appears as you imagine it.

Darkness dissolves the glass.

You, too, are consumed, atom by atom,

as the nuit sauvage feasts.

Suspended in the barbed wire fence

of your imagination, you find someone

who resembles your old mother, the one

you had all but reduced to ashes.

When was the last time you sat

in the parlor and venerated the urn?

Mother burned well, perhaps,

as well as she had lived, high on

herself and walking a tightrope

of unrealizable hopes and dreams.

But your dream rises above brute will,

delicate and mad and utterly combustible.

Did this capriccio come to you in your sleep?

You dreamed of the hours and days turning

into weeks, months, and finally years . . .

Perhaps it represents your leap against

the earth, against your limited existence

on it, for everything it is has kept you down.

This thing will stand on earth as a monument

to your momentary conquest of chaos,

but in time the elements will topple it

or a random red-cheeked child

with a pyromanic gaze will strike

an allumette de phospore and set it ablaze.

Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Canada. His short fiction has recently appeared in Cafe Irreal, Gone Lawn, and Brilliant Flash Fiction.   

#imagery#National Poetry Month 2024#nature#poetry#salvatore difalco

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