by John Salimbene
On my block,
morning is
when the German
shepherd speaks
its fury at
a cardinal.
I have not
yet learned
how to speak
my fury.
Our lawn is
a teenage beard;
patchy and
glistening
with angst.
That mailman
always flattens
our garden, and
fills our box
with Christmas,
bigotry and
obituaries.
I lost two
friends before
I could vote.
The town journal
left out the
pills and ropes.
The air is thick
like the glue
behind our peeling
wallpaper, and
the birds clear
their thin throats.
I’ve become a
student of silence
since there is
so little of it.
John Salimbene is a poet and editor based in Philadelphia. He is currently
the poetry editor for Tint Journal and will be starting his MFA in creative
writing at William Paterson University in the fall of 2021. His work can be
found in a locally published anthology called queerbook, as well as
Typishly and elsewhere.