You say
she knew not God
because she scratched
under a floorboard
all winterlong,
the marginal tracks
of a starved mouse
seeking a piece
of brittle crust,
maybe a crumb.
 I say
the floorboard
the scratching
the winter
inside her belly
and tiny paws
induced vision
strong enough
to stare down a sun
setting two ticks too quickly
every premature dusk.
It was her solemn and loving
way of announcing—i am emily—
a signature inviolably scratched
in the floorboard
in winter
in the ecstasy born of a crumb
converted into a banquet.
These things
and not people
not civilization
not society
brought her nearer to God
to herself—
the barest means
utter blankness.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of two novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale and Raking the Dust, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s