By Peter Magliocco

The inclement weather strikes
a key of terror in your bones
strafing heavens jet-lagged
in awesome cumulus dimensions.
Light smears a buttery hue
on the faces of grounded angels,
for few flyers return from
the hemisphere of earthly sorrow.
Children play in a portal of dreams
they will forget when wakening.
Taken from there with callused hand,
my aunt with her wig-like hair
became a maroon nightmare
digging her nails into me,
into all things extant fingers
her pressuring sent flowers swaying
to fallow rows of deadly blooming.
I skirted their buds like rainfall
undrunk by the thirsting days.
Night took us both, aunt & boy,
to an air where sorrow fled
into realms divine with darkness.
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he occasionally edits the lit-zine ART:MAG. Recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net in poetry, he has had work in GREENSILK JOURNAL, DEGENERATE LITERATURE, WHISPERS, JELLYFISH WHISPERS, POETRY LIFE AND TIMES, and elsewhere. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium.

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