person Amy Soricelli, two poems

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 –
you remember.
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.


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