Vincent Poturica
  

  
Day of Rest

For lunch, my wife
roasts Brussels sprouts.

Afterwards, I brush my
teeth with my thumb

to make her laugh.
Emma sends an email

about Travis. I google
him and learn he has

a daughter. I read
his interview with

Lance from J Church.
I google Lance and

learn he’s also dead.
A ladybug lands

in the shade
between my knuckles.
  

Bare Necessities

The world is on fire, as always,
and I sit in the apartment

with God and all the spiders,
missing Amy and the little one

who is burrowing inside her.
Tonight the neighbors fight

in the backyard with shovels
before they fuck above me.

I am happy for them, hiding
inside each other’s skin.

I don’t know why, but I am
thinking of a girl who is now

dead. We are sitting on the pier
again, lighting palm fronds with

matches. She tells me secrets.
Why can’t I remember her name?

This question hollows out
my heart to make space for her

and all the other strangers
who wear red masks. I hear them

taking turns sipping from the
spout of my aorta while they

gossip about my petty fears:
The little one needs shoes and socks.

The little one needs milk and diapers.
The little one needs to know what?
  

Vincent Poturica lives with his wife in Long Beach, California, where he teaches at local community colleges. His writing appears or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM; Forklift, Ohio; New England Review; and Western Humanities Review. contact