Nick Visconti

WEAK MAGIC


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.

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