deep winter…

deep winter
unopened love letters
in the fire


cuore dell’inverno
lettre d’amore sigillante
dentro il fuoco



*draped in shadows
my body
on top of his


coperto di ombre
il mio corpo
sopra il suo



*manic depression
I walk through


depressione bipolare
cammino attraverso
la bioluminescenza



**the last notch
on the doorframe


l’utima tacca
sullo stipite della porte
chiaro di luna


Published in Incense Dreams 1.3 – edited and translated by Lucia Fontano

*Editor’s Choice – in the Cave of Resilience (grotta della resilienza)

**Editor’s Choice – in the Haiku Cave (grotta dello haiku)

flash: Red

In my wardrobe there is one great oddity: a red fleece nightdress with Scottish Terriers going this way and that all over it. Most everything else in my closet is unobtrusive, passive if you will. Consequently, this strange garment sits in my closet like an out of place exclamation mark. My mother would have loved it. She was a flamboyant woman with bizarre taste. A paisley French scarf with a zebra striped shirt wouldn’t have been the slightest bit unusual. The winter after her passing, in the curious state that grief proved itself to be, I remember being fixated on the idea of purchasing a nightdress. I had never owned one before and it became almost a frantic necessity to have one. While scrolling through various styles online I came across that particular print. Oh, the sly smile and chuckle it elicited. It was the antithesis to my state of being. I don’t know why, years later, it sits in my closet, unworn and mostly forgotten, except that it reminds me that maybe there might be a little of my mother in me after all.


*this is a piece of flash memoir that was published back in October on the blog Lost Paper curated by Zee Zahava, editor of brass bell: a haiku journal


*TW: the following content contains references to sexual abuse


she tells me
the size of his penis
hello puberty


breakfast with grandma
the trust fund
stays open


ballet every day
her pipe dreams
in me


playing Brahms
her sincerity


the echo
of her laughter


french tipped nails
waiting in line
behind her priorities


I always knew
they were fake


daily backrubs
she teaches me
how to moan


personality disorder
I cannot escape
her shadow


my children
out of her reach


Scryptic Magazine: a magazine of dark art – edition 1.3 December 2017


motherly advice
she asks
if I’ve tried quaaludes


new boyfriend
I move down a number
on her speed dial


wedding day
my mother’s dress
more low-cut than mine


another sex talk
too weak
to slit my wrists


new porsche
her vanity plate


I learn the ways
I’ve failed


even her death
my fault


Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senyru – Issue 24

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