TWO POEMS BY DIANNA DRAGONETTI
I somehow cut
a bird in flight
on its breast
in the area
its stately beak
and gleaming eyes,
And it bled for days.
Hello, faded lover,
sitting on a crooked stool in a bar somewhere
tracing varicose veins
You are all red lipstick stain on a cocktail napkin,
Ragged runs in a nude slip,
Patent leather shoes plastered with the grime
of decadent evenings and industrial decay
The showerhead is a negligent lover, no?
Unrepentant in his boredom
Wrapped in a towel, hide your shame
Hello, wilted sweetheart,
batting sooty cigarette ash eyelashes
at anyone who will meet your gaze
You are mascara smudge,
curling wisp of smoke,
You are the noxious floral fragrance left behind on a subway seat.
You are a tired, beautiful vacancy,
haunted behind those heavy lids
by distorted images of your son’s grave in the rain
Your eyes are empty sea glass, now.
Dianna Dragonetti is a woefully jaded teen ghost who writes disjointed existential horror. She has published a book called ‘Tangier.’ She loves you. We all love you.