Debby
I can remember still
the slope of the green dell,
the blade of grass between Dave’s lips
while we watched Debby and her shifting hips
stroll toward us, an impish, tilted grin
kindling her pale face as she navigated the narrow lane.
After we told our tales and smoked our smokes
and after I recalled her as a tumbling child:
(even then she’d surprise me with secret pokes
in secret places. Oh, she was brimful of need
even at eleven, that buoyant, neglected girl),
we three sat on the sloping hill, our hands
behind us on the damp grass, our souls expanding,
as the bluing sky seemed to expand the dell, with love
for Deb, for David, for me, for the dark that fell from above
when she turned to me and drew my hands to her small breasts.
Play-by-Play
It’s safe to say that men like Claudius
Outnumber Hamlets by the thousands.
Cunning, crude, greedy, bland,
They adjudicate like sports announcers.
“Unmanly grief,” they tut to mourners,
“Impious stubbornness,” they shake their heads
And turn their eyes from pain to watch the game
And turn their caps around like youngsters.
As if grief were lengthed at nine innings
Or four quarters, or sixty cold minutes.
Or even five long acts. The heart’s very lining
Will fray in tatters as the center keeps pumping
Away and sorrow learns to tack the infinite,
While umpires on couches continue their counting.
Not Fade Away
And if you fade, fade as slowly
as a deeply bruised shoulder.
Black and purple come first
then livid blue then a lash of yellow.
The pain starts sharp, soon aches,
and next is tender to the touch,
and in a bit it’s gone for good,
leaving not so much as a flutter.
Your shadow, though, must remain
to keep me warm under its green throw.
And I’ll be grateful, my love,
for I refuse to yield this grief.
I’ll rest beneath your calming shade
as still as stone, all tears.
Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, Ireland’s Southword Journal, and The Adirondack Review, among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal, and named a finalist by the Noctua Review. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Algebra of Owls, The Lake, The Galway Review, Panoplyzine, The Blue Nib, FourXFour, Bold+Italic, and elsewhere. His chapbook, “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published by Finishing Line Press in 2017. He lives in Massachusetts.