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, as well as several anthologies. 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
Sail Me Away
Boats in the Bronx sometimes lay on the land sideways,
half-asleep with their hands curled underneath.
Off in the corner of the backyard, they can often be found
up against a shed,
caught in the space between the tireless bike
and forgotten hula hoop.
A few times you can find a Bronx boat strapped to the back
of a fierce truck –
or dragged into oblivion by a sturdy chain.
I have never seen a Bronx boat on the high seas
of the nearby beach or asleep on the third floor
of the parking garage.
If one had the time or inclination,I suppose a good Bronx boat
can sail across Boston Post Road all the way to the other side of the world,
with all its rough waters
and rabbits in the moon
Amy Soricelli has been in the world of higher education and staffing her entire professional career – is a LinkedIn Guru, lifelong Bronx resident, and has been published in camelsaloon, versewrights, Cantos, poetrybay, Blue Mirror and has appeared in assorted anthologies…and way back in the 70’s her first real poetry professor and friend to this day is Billy Collins – he sat on the desk back then and smoked cigs but it was 1976 after all so it was way cool.
Sunday with Mom, Salem’s, Verdi
There are children whose mothers retreat under the covers
hidden from the mystery or chatter;
rolled sideways they don’t see them –
ashy fingertips notes to the teacher.
She wasn’t that –
and even on Sunday’s when opera slipped under the door,
a foreign letter in strange tongues; deep reds
pouring through the scratchy speakers –
she would ask me to join her in the folds of the couch
and to listen for stunning blue baritones;
to spot them out -rabbits in the field.
She would have coffee in small delicate tea cups
and always a cigarette half-alive
waving its promising hand into the air.
How All First Times Are Sometimes Like This.
A minute of me is lost between the tongue
and your brain knocking tap tap tap;
the hollowness or your breath against glass.
I let you in –
sit here I say.
My long fingers showing you the spot on the smooth cloth –
We both know you do.
I stretch the shadows along the front of the house/ across the street.
Snow angels pasted against the edge of yesterday’s class
homework, fire drills.
You whispered breathless answers into my ear;
wrapped my legs around you/ snakes in every grass.
Bells ringing shouts in the street –
everyone’s car flying backwards in the air.