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The clarity of the moon, novels and sink
It was two months
before I didn’t need a mirror
to remind me of the curved lines in my eyes. Brown, like my father. Nose, sloped, wide
long, like my mother.
My painter hands,
creased and stained, bubbling
thread-pin stabs, like no one. When I reached for my magics, all I felt
was the clanging of the bell-man
as he yanked a gnarled rope, letting the townsfolk know what day it was.
How could they forget? How could I? With felt pins in my shirt
and gold floral hoops in my holes,
I almost felt like an accurate copy of myself.
But some days, I was a mushing
dalmation-spotted banana. I searched for my eyes and hands
in between bricks of dust-crusty pages,
trying to remember the plot and actions. But I couldn’t find
where the love-cave in my mind was, where my surprised goose bumps came from, how I cared about the shape of houses or the dotty-rotting dalmation bananas. Now
out my dusk-drop kitchen window my soapy painter
hands washing
tomato-smeared dishes
shook, then stilled.
The moon was a shallow curve
like the line between hip and breast,
when she breathed
into me and whispered
hello.
Stained Beach
A hug is waiting under
a Sailor’s moon and a Rosé sky—
morning bands
of light between your hips
and thighs.
Persephone flutters, shoves
her violet-stained
fist down your throat, hides
a tulip seed
in your chrysalis ribs.
Crack open your chest, nutty
caramel goo
to the paper—weight warmth
of spring.
Jessica Scirocco is a writer, painter, and designer whose work is playful, lush and intricate. She can find a story in simple acts like cleaning dishes, going for a walk in the forest and picking flowers. She believes finding beauty in ordinary things is where everyday magic thrives. She has had individual poems published in Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Plants & Poetry Journal, Ariel Publishing LLC and Eclectica Magazine.