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Fiddleback |
by John Venturella
A pinprick bite, an investigation.
A fiddleback in my bed,
as smooth as brown ash
pale as brown dust.
I caught him in a glass,
took him with me to the ER
where me,
and Fiddleback waited.
Across the hall
from our room
a young woman
was waiting. Her feet dangled
over the side of her bed.
(Fiddleback noticed too, all six eyes
pressed against the glass.)
She had lips
as red as Snow White's
poison apple.
I winked. She smiled.
Her eyes rolled
back into her head.
Alarms sounded and nurses rushed
to draw the curtain around her
room. But I've seen enough
T.V. to know the high-pitch whine,
Thump.
High-pitched whine,
Thump.
And the single note of a flat line.
(Fiddleback knew it too
and cleaned his violin
with his front legs.)
A tired doctor left her
room, came into mine
and looked over my chart.
"There's really nothing
we can do
for a Fiddleback bite."
I looked down at Fiddleback,
his fangs grinned back.
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Six Train Scratchitti |
by John Venturella
A six-year-old girl in a pink
dress and saddle shoes
kneeled knees to the back
of the faded orange bench.
She stared at the window.
Investigated each scratch.
Her finger gently traced
the scratchitti on the Plexiglas
window. Her nail fell into the groves
of each block letter.
First the F
then the U
then the C
then her father looked over.
He told her to sit down.
She did. He looked down
at her. Pulled her
closer under his arm.
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Roger's Summer Kingdom |
by John Venturella
Rachel Rapkin liked my Hot Wheels
and she didn't have any Barbies.
So I liked her.
That's all that mattered.
She visited her aunt and uncle
next door for a couple
of weeks one summer.
She said I made her laugh,
which was all the reason
I needed to make her laugh.
Under a tree in my backyard
we drank Coke from glass bottles,
fought yellow jackets
the size of walnuts.
Every curb was a balance beam. One
foot then the other.
Every ant a reason for a magnifying glass.
Pop, hiss. One dead after another.
The day before she left
she kissed my cheek
and whispered,
If no one cried
we'd all be ants.
Her aunt and uncle moved
that January.
We never really found
Coke in glass bottles.
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Excavator |
by John Venturella
The picture is framed.
I'm on the mud-caked tracks
of a CAT excavator, smiling
like I just got a yellow pet elephant.
Today I saw a CAT excavator
in a field where I used to play.
Weeds grew through the tracks.
The teeth on the rusted bucket
cried like ivory.
John Venturella is currently pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing at Chatham University in Pittsburgh, PA. A native of Cincinnati, OH, John's ultimate life goal is to bring the joy of Skyline Chili to the entire world.
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