2 POEMS – Gabriella Belfiglio


I find a hole to live in,

on 18th Street in Brooklyn.

To pay for the dump, I get a job.

I walk around the hours of the day—

a magic trick—cups and balls.

My roommates, a colony of cockroaches,

just out of grad school,

have been watching me for weeks.

I shred or file large stacks of papers.

I collect smooth stones

outside the journalism building.

Mostly I wish to steal

one night of sleep from the dead

in clothes that don’t fit me.

I am suspended by the sun, apart, torn,

separate from you

deny the truth as long as I can.



My best friend calls to say

her acupuncturist found her another healer–

no longer sure of which skin to pierce.

I can picture her pacing the downstairs

of her new house, absentmindedly picking up a marker

or toy her boys left behind; or dusting

the oak table that centers the dining room—

fingers and thumb pinching

any wisp of stray dust. I see the phone

nestled in the crook of her neck

underneath her dark hair.

Together, we negotiate the expectations

we’ve swallowed over the years. We assert

all the things we meant to.

Her radiant smile waxes

into the full moon of her face.

Call it kindred. Call it crazy.

She has the ability to remind me

that the whole world belongs

to us. Every moment

of our short lives it is easy

to forget. Everyone of us.

I am mincing garlic

for dinner. It is almost

too dark without a light

kindled in the kitchen.

I am listening.


find Gabriella online

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