by Brent Lucia
The old
bird walked in, flapping her cheap wings.
Scouting
for rusty Johns.
Screaming
at Hell’s gate to let her in for her sins.
She clung
to our noses like burnt rubber.
Peeling
at the rind.
Dumping a
twist in her Powers on the rocks.
And in
the black sea, against her empty palm.
Sinking
against the past.
Passing
away from all the lonely touches of her day.
Brent
Lucia was born and raised in Massachusetts but has been living in New
York City for the past ten years. He is currently an adjunct lecturer
at City College of New York and has been teaching both literature and
writing courses for the past four years.
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