Tag Archives: mother

Swimming Lessons

Posted on October 6, 2026 by John Biscello

My mother’s face. The bladed cheekbones, the dancer’s neck, the crowded eyes. What about the rest of her? My mother carried within herself gothic mass, sclerotic and stillborn, the dead child of motherless. Motherless lived inside my mother, beside her. … Continue reading →

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Pool

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

My mother’s face. What about the rest of her? My mother carried within herself, like the gothic utburd, the dead child of motherless. Motherless lived inside my mother, beside her. In these motherless places dark things grew, which I would … Continue reading →

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Board Game

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

It is inescapable. This I know, and begrudgingly accept. Yet, do I begrudgingly accept it? Or do I just say that because what alternative do I have? I can kick and scream like a five-year-old in the paroxysms of a … Continue reading →

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A Brief History of Love

Posted on December 22, 2025 by John Biscello

Here, her mother said, pressing something into her palm.    A phantom tack. A concentrated pinch. Something sharp breaking skin and spreading heat.    She looked down. Her palm now tattooed with a tangle of dark glyphs, a concert of … Continue reading →

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Her Body, Her Name

Posted on November 18, 2025 by John Biscello

   It was a time in her life when she was not there, not inside herself or her life. And she was pregnant. Pregnant by the wrong man, so many wrong turns and wrong men, and this one, a mislaid … Continue reading →

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Plot

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

   Yesterday I buried my mother. Two mothers. Maybe three, or four. I have had many mothers in the small hours of this modest and shrinking life. All my mothers are tassels of foam threading mighty surf. All my mothers … Continue reading →

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Winter

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

   I say my mother’s grief was white on white … I say this, but this is not true all the time. The colors change. My mother’s grief has been pink, blue, red. Yet, more and more, when I am … Continue reading →

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Vigil

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

When I watched my mother brush her hair, it made a scraping electric sound: vibrating plastic teeth sinking repeatedly into a fuzzy animal. I loved watching my mother brush her hair. I’d make sure to always stand behind her, so … Continue reading →

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Mayday

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

My mother’s grief attends nightly to her bones. It is a funeral in reverse, or a funeral in slow-motion, longing for a mourning long delayed. We stall ourselves in grief—idling, passive—and the freest parts become small dark birds tearing away … Continue reading →

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Knives

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

   My sister says she doesn’t have many memories from childhood. When she looks back, there’s nothing there: a blank screen. I never asked her if she saw black or white in her absence of memories.    One of her … Continue reading →

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