Nick Visconti


I thought of a place—

Not too big. Backyard, pool, trampoline,

all made of brick.

I thought of a crashed car—

My father inside

his white coat

cloth sounds on the highway.

I thought of the wind’s destination—

It can’t settle just anywhere

and home is where it next rains.

I thought of my brother’s eyes—

Green and gold blurred

into my grandmother’s name.

I thought of nature—

Confused it

with something fair,

watched a man take his citation and walk.

I thought of December—

Gutted for parts and left

among buffalo grass

imitating highway breath

dissolving into fiction.

I thought up a therapist—

What do you remember

the squirrels

chittering oaks

out of acorns, tails

softer than lamb’s ear

in a garden beside rosemary.

And he seemed

like he was there.

Nick Visconti has been published by the Cordite Review, Prelude, Invisible City, and Image. Visconti was a semi-finalist for 2018’s Discovery prize and currently studying creative writing at Columbia University.

Recent Posts

See All

Ja'net Danielo

TO THE MURDER HORNETS I WANT TO SAY I get it. Who among us hasn’t wanted to kill the sweetest thing? Lick smoke & nut from our teeth, then rush that hive to take what’s ours, gorge on sticky spoils? W

Maeve Holler

THE DIRT WHICH BIRTHS US Foxworth, Mississippi, 2021 for my Granny At the bottom of Red Bluff, I see you. Your body an eggshell, your insides spilling out like yolk across the sunset clay. I see your

William Erickson

Inventions Pt 91 I invent a machine that grows flowers for funerals. You flip the switch. No one survives. You try to flip it back, but it's stuck, bloom after bloom. A god rippling through a cosmos.