Nick Visconti
Splinter, Coda
Nick Visconti
Splinter,
Coda
Mary spills a fleeing haunted terror
as honeycomb cuss, ordained beds bear
the border of begonias knifing human
in that lathing of repurposed harmony,
bearable change. There, talk leaks
icing my machine through return thunder,
more requests, a snapper’s red will
to light arms spinning the wail our river
bifurcates: dog, pine, anything lily.
Luke, can’t dahlias bank Laurent,
laurelled children, drone-struck arroyos,
children in rooms of kids hip with fact—
let Mary’s like of hydrangea gift re
red. Lord, everything night slobbers
the kids remember: grief, the auscultating
state, skies wrecked by fever, Benadryl,
shadows, pictures, hearts—remember.
Laurent adrift, mom existing. She,
who weeds bells of dirt, all fist.
What squares his saxophone: Laurent’s
green striding, hydrangea ragged, sends
azalea grief. Ballots place weight,
walk, tick frogs, a crush remembered,
backyard paid then scratched. Lord of bulb,
frenetic perfect love clipping the memorial
guide, call the worming stereo, drink
his wood crown anew, widow stabled
truth again sleeping, desert worn
clots shroud the snow of frantic December,
a cricket mourning the fabric past all
beside the poem’s silk. Ask others
does its chest heap lumin, dance? Listen:
the friend works clefs lightened, bargaining
perfected soot unheard, ups Mary’s
escitalopram address by night.
Dawn-speared Lord, everything names
itself a moment cut past a life of splitting
ruins; hands God a dove of office.
I change, existing on, down, in
or up, drops foothills in a gold
dance, whips streetlamps cold
and running, seawall rock bargaining—almighty:
what feathers name divinity, a true learning.
History compelled Mary. The mourning branches
a blue mumble blown at what’s stitching
her MRI hums, the shadows drink bargaining
reconfigured flowers, pour comfort,
return dusk as a covered bedside painting,
held laughter God clipped into each
rogue’s uneaten heirloom sleeve.
Beneath more beer, the struggle of Mary’s wooden
needle, Zofran, torn unrest, refusals.
Canopies blur, flower grace, sirens
riff. Mary, the boulevards sound drawn,
laurel fog lights giftshop nostalgia,
dog-bound offers yawn with time,
dreams from a crash now gummed with anguish.
This brilliant yard aria hands embedded
gray rain clouds crows where dogwoods
sprout hydrangea lignifying the morning
silent in fragments, rocks running, hospital
beating dismembered a world burnt of mess
basking, bargaining, lifted, and no head wilts
stupidly. Wild stucco bottling diligence
down to Mary handles beloved fractals
before one unsaid begonia grain. Some exist
alone in brief alto drips through brushes
muffled parting, people dotting the promise
corroborating a gathered word. Mary’s garden
fledged orange could encode things haunting
a hallmark inscribed for every part balding,
blocked trees stagnant, walls inside,
light finds cacti misting eternal,
knowing a dove’s faint dove-truth.
Kids laid past silence beneath
never young mirror studies. Mary’s
night-refrain by memory slips shadow,
clarity eyed our fenestrate the maybe hides.
Landscape’s white muscle scatters care,
learned I’m the moth’s density branching, knifing
a split name. Wholly winter the begonias
lily intervals petal sound fully
sewing running mounds, yucca in hospitals,
hope bygone, the yarrow ripping beyond
air, the beginning recalled. Long-lived
soft coos curling, road receding,
going cracked into horned rain twisted
thin. Tell me, with anthers fried, azalea
huck the dropsy swollen dark hovering,
name dissolving undone, collapsing.
Flower in a father-singing cloud,
his desk’s tulip-stethoscope calling
for collision, a death like song entirely reached
day through permission, knows anemones
in the yard, below that riff, never passive,
the ears divide beginning bells, speeding
Engrained hair-flame shawl. Their lawsuit
fathomed no colder leaf could earth
say sends rot past Albuquerque, between
facts, beer bargaining time concealing
glyph-grief, bell-need in waves
hanging. Laurent bargaining, searching, working
the afternoon of making. At last
endurance, descent, send invading
chimes awaiting lightning in words hanging
a prescription: I won’t change it, Mary.
I won’t change anything at all.
Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn, NY. He plays softball on Sundays.
Featured in:
Red Rock Review
Issue 53