Ellie belfiglio

When I hear this sound that awakens me, intimidating its way into my cloistered night, I write…

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For you dad. I still am crying. Mourning, morning…


I was feeling pretty religious

standing on the bridge in my winter coat

looking down at the gray water

the sharp little waves dusted with snow,

fish in their tin armor.

That’s what I like about disappointment

the way it slows you down

when the querulous insistent chatter of desire

goes dead calm.

And the minor roadside flowers

pronounce their colors,

and the red dirt of the hillside glows.

She played the flute, he played the the fiddle

and the moon came up over the barn

or her father died before she told him

that one, most important thing…

and everything got still____ …