I
Pulpy the wit that
once was needle sharp,
like when you said,
“Better great than never”
to make mother laugh.
You were seven then,
funny boy, little man.
You could lick anyone in
the whole goddam family.
The whole goddam block.
II
You once were lost but now
are ground into powder,
the winter bleak, the sky lucid.
Mother’s not here but her heart
floats on yours like a reed.
III
You’re ready to fly,
the lick of wind on
the cliff, your own
precipice, the wind’s voice
in this high place,
the nearness of clouds.
Alec Solomita has published fiction and poetry in Eclectica, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, and elsewhere. Most recently, his work has appeared in theEEEL, Turk’s Head Review, MadHatLit, 3 Elements, and Truck. Several of his poems are forthcoming in Fulcrum: an anthology of poetry and aesthetics. He lives in the city of Somerville in the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
–Art by Mustafa Dedeoğlu