It Is What It Becomes

Amy Soricelli | Poetry

When I point to the highway from our window

you don’t think that’s it.

There is more to the eyes and under

the hood of our cars.

You stopped buying the newspaper.

We have no fish to wrap in it, no words

to leave dying in the bones.

We listen to the Beatles when I eat lunch and

we sit breaking cheese into small squares.

We don’t point to the dead person on the

television who isn’t dead yet.

Sometimes on the days when there is no

light or sun and the curtains stay open or

never got closed, we can believe it

isn’t inside with us.

You asked for a book of opposites; for pages

of right and wrong, voting booths and mail slots.

You ask about dinner and how the sun feels through the window.

It feels like war.

art credit: "View from the House of Henry Briscoe Thomas, Baltimore" (1841) by unknown, Metropolitan Museum of Art