Tag Archives: mother

Six

Posted on July 9, 2017 by John Biscello

   I was six when I found out I’d never become a super hero.    We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother and father. My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Small Thing

Posted on May 24, 2017 by John Biscello

It is a small thing, small matter, and yet, magnificent, profound, terrifying, yes, terrifying. She is now responsible for this thing, this love, her love has assumed a shape, a form, and it lies there, sleeping, not too far removed from … Continue reading →

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My Mother

Posted on February 11, 2017 by John Biscello

   My mother had had a hard life. There have been many challenges, many obstacles, and in a sense you could trace their origins back to her father, her rapist.    When your father is also your rapist your childhood … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Inheritance

Posted on December 29, 2016 by John Biscello

Amidst divisive riot, the clear sound of two tears mating upon the crest of a sunken cheek; a mother’s grief, near to fasting and silence, the warmest cross to inherit in holding the meek inviolate.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Totem

Posted on June 27, 2016 by John Biscello

   Here, her mother said, pressing something into her palm.    A pinch.    A pinch, breaking skin, spreading blush and heat.    She looked down—her palm now tattooed with a tangle of dark glyphs; a concert of spirals, curlicues … Continue reading →

Posted in Artwork, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment