Ricordo
The memories had little teeth
or were full of hot air.
They made me bleed
metaphorically speaking
or troubled my breathing.
Nothing good summarizes
the faded snapshots.
I feel like a hole sometimes.
Unseen, Unsaid
1
Where are your hands?
You keep them contained.
I tried to communicate to you
with gestures—improv
semaphores.
I no longer believe that your
door is open to me.
In words, say it in words.
2
When we sat in the movie theatre
and I rested my arm on your shoulders
what did you think about the movie?
It rains here when I’m feeling like this.
Time dilation is a thing.
My stomach ache persists.
3
I can only imagine that many of
those stars
no longer exist where they are.
They exist as light perhaps, ultraviolet
waves, neutrinos, my physics
falters even as I see you fade in and out
of my reality when I try to fix you
in my thoughts.
Airborne Systems
The sky shimmered like a rainbow trout.
I tried to represent it on a sketch pad.
I have no talent.
I have something called pretense.
When I wear my usual mask
everyone knows who I am.
On those times I leave it on the shelf
I could be someone’s other self,
or a former sadness
that soured them for a stretch.
Everything changed in a second.
Someone died.
Someone was born.
Someone fell in love.
Someone fell out of the sky.
A parachute failed.
I still see his eyes.
Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada.
Chantarelle's Notebook 