No. 8-9


Angelo Verga  

In This Life, I Have Good Parents

A kind father who teaches me to work with my hands
A mother who loves me
I walk barefoot in a well-run city
Money is small, black and plentiful as poppy seeds
The food is cheap easy to eat delicious sandwiches 
The women who are attractive wear long white coats
They would like me to approach speaking with their fathers
But I already have a sexy girlfriend who is affectionate & generous
The doorways have no doors, the winters are mild
The fireplaces are as easy to work as phones
I have plaster dust on my overalls, I’m happy 
My hair is black, my teeth straight
In the life that I create as I sleep, I have good parents

My Mother is Dying 

Stringy gray hair, dull eyes, mouth slack.
She was once so vain, she who no longer 
Can comb her hair, yawn open to flies
Her gums gnawing on paper napkins
As if they were parsley eggplant and eggs.
My mother is dying, my mother’s beauty 
Is dead, she who was once so beautiful.
Her lips move but there is no sound for a long while.

“Don’t marry her,” she spits out, “She’s selfish.” 
She is looking at my girlfriend’s back
My woman has dance leg, a sumptuous ass
“She’s a party girl, not the kind you marry.”
My once beautiful mother now hates beauty.
She who is dying can no longer stomach life.


Sick for years, my father,
On his deathbed
Charged me
To take care of
My mother,
Because he
Never had

Put into place 
Any provisions 
For her, in the event
Of his death

My solicitous dad, 
He always had 
Impeccable timing




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everything published 
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with the authors.


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