Poetry by El Bentivegna

      Nicholas Erwin CC



Pyriscence

The sky is dry again. Wood cracks. Sparks fly. 
Sun’s eye in mind. My mom calls and I lie:
We’re doing fine. Sirens. I fill the pill 
case full of lead. Smoke can kill. When you’re ill
you get nostalgic: fall, death of it all,
the licks of leaves on tall trees. Call it false,
man-made, God’s plan. The pinecones understand
that we can’t go back to where we began.
Black soot swirls with cool rain. Our limbs unfurl. 
His burned hands crackle, curl around me, girl-
hood shed. We fall to our ash bed, two wed
by red flame, led to blue water, not dead
but in bloom, true to type. Ripe acorns strewn,
crushed to perfume, seeds sprung not out but through.
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El is a writer originally from New Jersey. They are currently an MFA candidate at the Northeast Ohio MFA Program through Cleveland State University. Their work can be found in or is forthcoming from *82 Review, HAD, Slant, and others. They live in Cleveland with their husband and five cats.
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