Brandon Amico
Greek Language Lost, Two Generations Ago
Still: in this shade
and thick heat, my blood―
rubies, either melting or forming
their sanguine bodies, I don’t think
it matters how it’s titled.
Maybe stem should be throat,
I should kiss the peonies hello.
How am I to know which flowers
were born human, having read
their lives only in translation?
Does the sky bleed in geese
or do the birds welcome the air
into being with their mouths? I sit
wholly unique on the asphalt,
whispering to an imagined
ancestor as everything builds
or breaks around me. Either
I’m closer than ever or the farthest
I could be; there should be a single word
for this. Maybe I’ll hold this basketball
above my head and look down,
and maybe it’ll become a fat orange
up there. May the dog next door
take this small miracle as a cue
to stop cursing at me in Boxer.
Cursing: my father calls it
being flippant, though he says
“flip”―as if it were a trick to swear,
a sleight of tongue―not realizing
where the word comes from.
Brandon Amico is from Manchester, New Hampshire. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Muzzle, Word Riot, >kill author, elimae, and others. He is the 2012 recipient of the Richard M. Ford Award for poetry. You can find out more about him at brandonamico.com
Return to November 2012 Edition
Still: in this shade
and thick heat, my blood―
rubies, either melting or forming
their sanguine bodies, I don’t think
it matters how it’s titled.
Maybe stem should be throat,
I should kiss the peonies hello.
How am I to know which flowers
were born human, having read
their lives only in translation?
Does the sky bleed in geese
or do the birds welcome the air
into being with their mouths? I sit
wholly unique on the asphalt,
whispering to an imagined
ancestor as everything builds
or breaks around me. Either
I’m closer than ever or the farthest
I could be; there should be a single word
for this. Maybe I’ll hold this basketball
above my head and look down,
and maybe it’ll become a fat orange
up there. May the dog next door
take this small miracle as a cue
to stop cursing at me in Boxer.
Cursing: my father calls it
being flippant, though he says
“flip”―as if it were a trick to swear,
a sleight of tongue―not realizing
where the word comes from.
Brandon Amico is from Manchester, New Hampshire. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Muzzle, Word Riot, >kill author, elimae, and others. He is the 2012 recipient of the Richard M. Ford Award for poetry. You can find out more about him at brandonamico.com
Return to November 2012 Edition