The way you look at me is not love.
It’s the three a.m conversation in high school about death,
and maybe an unexpected empty cab in the rain.
Your hands were softer when you spoke about all the days
that fit in front seats or when you sidled-up against the plans
you crossed all those streets for.
Those girls who cried over Bruce Springsteen instead of you.
You were on the wrestling team and tossed yourself
against dusty mats.
I hid with Marlboro's in the cave of the bathroom.
You told me that boys never marry the girls with deep cuts
across their wrists, the ones with angry hair under caps.
You tried to show me math with Crosby, Stills and Nash
whispering down my neck.
I wrote poetry in your bathroom after opening all your cabinets
None of your soap was scented but they were in shapes like
stars and fish.
Your mother had clouds on the ceiling.
Once after history, we sat on the steps and I told you how
The sun was in your eyes.
Your sister smoked cigarettes with me in the back of the high
school our last summer there.
It was our puffed-up secret.
But I'll tell it to you now.
Amy Soricelli has been in the field of career education and staffing for over 30 years. A lifelong Bronx resident, she has been published in Grub Street, Camelsaloon, Versewrights, The Starving Artist, Picayune Press, Deadsnakes, Corvus review, Deadbeats, Cantos, Poetrybay, The Blue Hour Magazine, Empty Mirror, Turbulence magazine, Bloodsugar Poetry, Little Rose magazine, The Caper Journal, CrossBronx, Long Island Quarterly, Blind Vigil Review, Isacoustic, Poetry Pacific, Underfoot, Picaroon Poetry, Vita Brevis, Voice of Eve, Uppagus, The Long Islander, The Pangolin Review, Plum Tree Tavern, Red Queen Literary Magazine, Terse Journal. as well as several anthologies. *Chapbook, Dancing Girl Press, Summer 2019. Nominated by Billy Collins for Emerging Writer's Fellowship/2019, Nominated for Sundress Publications "the best of the net" award 6/13, and recipient of Grace A. Croff Memorial Award for Poetry, Herbert H. Lehman College, 1975.