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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.




 


The place where he resides

is scattered by love-balled hands emerging from a Ziploc bag holding fragments, the yucca’s bald head for a little spiked halo flourishing in season. There’s no easy way to go about vanishing the beloved—like fog, or a ghost freed from its nothing-pot and cast in coral, it circles. A burst from life looking back, it looks as though he took his smokes with him.


 

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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