Tag Archives: Poetry

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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Operating Theater

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   I have become moonless in my grief, a paled comparison. But to what? To who I used to be? What I expected to become? I feel as if I’ve been laid out on an operating table, and Time, as … Continue reading →

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Empire Strikes Back

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   Her hips began the snake-dance, the spasmodic wiggle. She told me to listen closely, and her hips began hissing a slow cadence, the world losing its air, the world a depleted lunar asthmatic in need of oxygen blasts. My … Continue reading →

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That Thing With Feathers

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   As she moved her bladed hips beneath him, small dark starshaped birds tore out of her hips, scissoring the air, and were then immediately sucked back into her hips, as if by an invisible vacuum.    He stopped, and … Continue reading →

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Pirate Radio

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   Hips don’t lie. They are the truth-telling giants and the whistle-blowers transmitting through pirate radio. They are also the catacombs and weather satellites of one’s cumulative genealogy. When an old person falls and breaks their hip, it is not … Continue reading →

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Gremlins

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   I can no longer remember where I was when it happened, only that it happened, it must have happened. Sometimes we cry silent recordings in our bones, or guts, or maybe it is our hips that are the primary … Continue reading →

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3 AM

Posted on November 12, 2025 by John Biscello

Sometimes we wake up at 3am and we don’t know who we are, how we got there (where is there), why anything. Why at all. In these ghostly interstices, we try to locate ourselves in absentia—we awaken to no purpose, … Continue reading →

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New Romantics

Posted on November 6, 2025 by John Biscello

The call, and calling…

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