two poems

by Nicolas Visconti

A halo in thin air

A halo in thin air. Laurent, after

the wreck, I never allowed myself to learn

all the names of Mary’s favorite flowers:

bird of paradise, toad lily, cosmos.

Swathes of petals lap the blue mist

settled over morning. Laurent, after

your death, no part of me could fathom

kneeling in petrichor, dredging up earth-

worms, squirming and muscle-bound. The garden

erupting in color every Spring ordered

our lives, the life Mary pulled from the wreck.

Sirens bouncing off walls, the home a blur

of bank statements, inquests. Loss, be-

come something bearable. Show me.

A cloth memorial

A cloth memorial, sky-blue, sea-green.

Mary’s sewing needle ciphers the real

story: dive bars and treble clefs, three-

fourth sleeves stitched to brass bells. Myth,

a comfort made of thread-bare things,

repurposed squares of clothing. A father

mitered to diamonds. This is how

(no one told me, I’m learning this now)

I wrapped myself in all that’s left of him

at once—a canopy of cut-ups

held by reedy arms shaking beneath

the blanket’s weight, collapsing in a heap.

What I’ve learned to be true of every crash—

the awful sound, what sends people running.

---

Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn. He plays softball most Sundays.