the pegasus clock in ICU15

Posted on January 9, 2019 by AM Roselli

very excited to have my poem, the pegasus clock in ICU15, appear in this excellent zine!
while you’re there check out fellow poet, Robert Okaji’s prize winning piece, A Further Response from the Hornet’s Nes t

The Pegasus Clock in ICU15

such ridiculous tools. as if words could fix a bleeding brain.
preordained fabric dividers meant to separate us if you die.
divert eyes staring at the clock. remember I’d told you the
stories. oversized book. water-washed illustrations. pegasus,
my benevolent savior. the man in golden sandals flies me away.
clouds disconnect from bleached cotton and plastic pillows
sweating the sick. sister mary sometimes foiled my library day
with the winged horse. give someone else a turn annmarie. you
can’t take the book every thursday. blinded by Christian light she
couldn’t comprehend pegasus and me needling defeat between
fetlock and toe. so much tubing here. how many times might it
circle the world? fall risk wrapped around your wrist. i remember
periwinkle choir robes. living angel singing out with bright lips.
mom, please wake up. Use your words. Use your voice. the
pegasus clock in ICU15 stammers. his magnificent wings
unfurl. shimmering feathers brush away these hideous blinking
lights and institutional grey floors. fly it all away.

drop foot

Posted on December 16, 2018 by AM Roselli

Drop Foot

rising up from the lobby traffic
dark robes shadow her dimming eyes
petrified ash covering her skin flicked off the devil’s cigarette
I now believe in failure
sallow cheekbones sunken above anchored form
where careless pay fingers multiply and nest
prodigal daughter turns painted toenails into broken shine
wheelchairs made of witch-bone wait along the cinderblock
she is tethered to the weight of memories and moments
while tongues speak antiseptic Latin
I neglect the headlights coming at me in the dark
latent images floating like sour candy
all is never the same, driving no escape route
her drop foot like cement on the brake

a mother’s pride

Posted on December 4, 2018 by AM Roselli

thanks to people’s generosity, max’s friend has a round trip ticket for the holidays
top left (Christmas 2017, max’s beautiful sister Caroline holding Mojo the wiener dog and to the right – max)
bottom right (max’s 2017 high school graduation snap)

exposure

Posted on October 21, 2018 by AM Roselli

my beautiful Rocky dog gone now for three years, believe it or not, he was a real pussycat 😘

unwarm

Posted on September 28, 2018 by AM Roselli

new poem “unwarm” published in FREE LIT Magazine, please check out this creative online journal, many talented writers & artists

This piece is based on the night my father passed away. I can’t believe it will be a year this November since he left us. On the night of my dad’s death, all emergency responders were nothing short of amazing🌹

Unwarm

was it your choice
choosing sleep to die in
I watched them
watched them dad
in your mint bedroom
trying to make your chest say something
while your mouth was bound with elastic
and a pump shoved down your throat
screaming in my head

PLEASE stop

he’s gone

leave him be

it goes on like this for an hour
or nearly so
not pronounced dead
until the white sheet
in the emergency room

was that for us
was that for you
maybe for them
still unsure

I kissed your cheek
not entirely unwarm
you look good dad

not dead
not cold
just quiet

Gary

Posted on September 11, 2018 by AM Roselli

“Gary Paul Geidel (December 11, 1956 – September 11, 2001) was a New York City Fire Department firefighter killed during the September 11 attacks shortly before scheduled retirement. His brother Ralph Geidel, also a firefighter, helped in the 9/11 rescue effort as well and around 2014 died of complications attributed to toxins he inhaled at the scene.” Wikipedia

I did not know Gary personally, I did not know his family, I painted this for a friend’s mother who knew Gary’s mom very well.
My father’s cousin’s husband was in one of the towers – he didn’t work there – he’d been there only for an interview – on 9/11 his story changed to past tense