Author Archives: Katie Sticca

  When I first take my rescue dog to the vet he gives her a treat   and she holds it gently in her mouth for the entire appointment.   He tells me that she has a soft mouth; that … Read More

  My therapist tells me that the stomach holds most of our feelings. She doesn’t mean what goes into it, but still I start to dream up a feast of joy inside my gut. Spinach, artichokes, oranges slowly peeled in … Read More

  Here I am, the heavy bird, shifting high above, invisible at night, feathered black, as much a pit as any necrotic tooth in any unkempt mouth, crook-necked, scythe-headed, eyes puddle-flat and palest water-color, keeping constant watch from their shallow … Read More

  Please remember me as misunderstood, a butcher by circumstance, untrusted, but then proven when I turn back to the burning village, pull the missing child or injured brother from under a buckled roof. I carry him through explosions to … Read More

  Undead, undead, undead, undead, undead, undead —Bauhaus   When I say I like your earrings, it comes out sounding as though they sing to me like a dinner bell above your neck’s pale tablecloth, but what I mean is … Read More

  In the shadows of the underwater world sound muffles. Strokes stretch your body over the taut skin of water, the mouth of the earth, the place where there is a horse buried upside down his legs stiff—Dive deep enough … Read More

  On the night we visited your favorite restaurant, the sea churned outside the salt-crusted window. We couldn’t see you anymore, but we felt your small ghost lean over our shoulders, whispering in our ears: don’t forget to order the … Read More

  The world is trying to kill me one news story, one sneeze, one bad president at a time. And maybe I don’t care anymore if I’m dead. That’s what I used to think when she put her fingers inside … Read More

  Every time I hear a gunshot I feel it in the back of my teeth as a shiver,   a silver ache. Maybe it’s from the many years of braces—the touch of metal   wrapped tight in my mouth … Read More

  after “View of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer” by Vincent Van Gogh, 1888   White wash, black thatch, tiles of tangerine, marigold, ginger—saffron cathedral, and this patch before us—greens, blues, purples, a woman in black, white bonnet bobbing. A weak and greenish sky. … Read More

  gone through the back door late to let out the dogs I would not have found the ten-point buck pilfering the bird feeder, stunned as I with his hungry heart, the things we do when we think no one … Read More

  My nature poem has air conditioning, but no line breaks. My nature poem doesn’t care what your nature poem thinks; that is its nature. Though it has never met a season it didn’t like, my nature poem prefers seasons … Read More