July on South St. (AEAE)

By NICK MAIONE

Two trees during sunset 
Northampton, MA

I open the doors and windows and shut off the lights.
For a while I play tunes on the fiddle
shirtless in my dark house. I love doing this.
For the first time all day I am not at home.
For the first time since the last time
my body is the same size as my flesh.
The only home I have is finally mine
and there is a breeze.

The last colors leave the sky
and the neighborhood is completely dark.
I wish I was able to love more easily
but I am not a very generous person.
I don’t think my neighbors mind so much.
I don’t play too poorly, or for very long.

After a few redeeming non-melodic wisps
with the bow, which I cannot help doing,
I stop. Silence pours out of the empty house.
I hear most clearly in this instant what the world
will sound like without me in it.

 

Nick Maione‘s poems have appeared in jubilat, TriQuarterly, On The Sea Wall, Adirondack Review, and Peripheries, among others. He edits the online recitation journal Windfall Room and is the founder & artistic director of Orein Arts, a residency program at a monastery in Upstate New York. He holds an MFA in poetry from UMass Amherst and lives in the Northeast. Instagram: @nmaione_

July on South St. (AEAE)

Related Posts

Gabriella Fee

June 2022 Poetry Feature: Gabriella Fee

GABRIELLA FEE
Death springs from me like a hothouse flower. / My mother swaddles me in terrycloth / and vigils me for three days in her bed. / Pillbox. Rice and lentils. Kettle. Psalm. / She dims the lights as though I were a moth. / She combs my hair.

opulent room 1

Modest for a Dictator

IRINA HRINOSCHI
They were executed in winter: Nicolae Ceaușescu, and his wife Elena, who was also shot, but in people’s minds this was secondary to her being an insufferable pseudo-intellectual who loved fur coats. And their children, Nicu, Zoe and Valentin, spared during the 1989 Revolution.

white mailbox on the side of a road

A Road, the Sun

CAROLYN KUEBLER
The warmth of the sun, her skin warming up too. Yes, this is it, she says. I have always been and will always be this way. But what way is this? Is it happiness?