Author Archives: Katie Sticca

  Horses glittered in the field Like knives A sudden drop In temperature everything Washed in ash The Yes unstuck Landscapes Picked clean Let’s go down To some train station or another We’ll sit and wait for a train that … Read More

  In the heat I hobbled             on my phantom limb.             Bark where a pulse should have splintered.             A neighborhood of milk crates … Read More

  Small enough to crawl in through the pet door to my mind when I’m all locked, so small You nest a migraine in my pillow, gall my hallways like a noisy clock, or, better, You’re a doll and I’m … Read More

  A boy is coloring a picture of his family, but he only has two crayons.   If he makes his father’s face blue, he must draw his eyes red.   If he chooses a fire-colored shirt, the pants will … Read More

  Nights Daddy didn’t come, our mother turned down the roast and set out crayons. My sister peeled the rind from a color called flesh. I chose periwinkle like his Air Force ring. Mother stood at the window and blew … Read More

  Returning home from work, I found myself following a garbage truck as it lumbered south through rush hour traffic, as it maneuvered its rusty armed or elbowed front loader, leaked from the hopper, weaved the threat of its wobbling … Read More

The way a man meets his death will be determined by his character. —Benito Mussolini   ‘Rest in peace’ has its ironies, and, in the case of Mussolini, a long and winding road that intersects with that of Domenico Leccisi, … Read More

  1 I open Project Gutenberg dot com place the name of one Girish Karnad in the precarious window above left of page and wait for available dope for plays on line, namely Tughlaq, for my English class in the … Read More

-After Auguste Glaize’s “Cherubim for Auction”   Do you remember doing that to the garden   Have you eaten+++++What was the last thing You swallowed++++++The tremendous pills Were they prescription were they your prescription   And when you held him … Read More

  Whoever stopped rowing took this picture of me standing, fists in jacket pockets, beside the rotting pier, another potential failure, feature of the empty April beach, new companion to surviving cedars (that ‘30s hurricane), lone forsythia, wry expositor, its … Read More