four poems

by Ryan Di Francesco

I Remember When I Saw

folded skeletons of the flat city

on piles of saffron

carved out

of cement

madness

in ritual patterns

of junk metal—

it made me

sick—

the cracked

like hooves

of extinct animals

attached

to ancient structures

covered with moss

once connected

to a buried world

now stabbing

the aboveground’s

brutality

pressed to wire—

fenced and fallen.

I saw it

bent silently in shining

serene yellow

flesh.

You should’ve seen it there—

grazing in the

late afternoon

left to scour on wet grass.

All over again.

/k/

The midnight croon,

of downcast

eyes,

knuckled

in corners,

cut,

hacked

and carved,

cracked across

moonlit sidewalks

like cemetery stones—

in the mire of the macadam,

along curbs

broken in people,

in iron cages,

cut adrift,

left on pavement to lift

another cut dawn—

full of charming creatures,

canicular creatures,

with rich crass air—

clearly,

stretched out on cardboard,

stepped over

by clean synthetic morning hearts

dashing

for dollars

in fat shadows.

This metabolic imbalance

detected,

toxins in the systemic

slaughterhouse,

its subsystem,

in line for another ticket,

sliced by the city,

prescribed by

health care clinics

for those in the outskirts—

eaten like meat,

burying

a mouthful

of hard sounds

in the back of throats,

taking a shot or two

to kill time,

uttering

/k/

in ribs

of the dead—

sacred murmurs,

counting those

blessings:

one after one.

At 4 a.m. I wake. Thinking

I was staring out my window

and saw the earth

sewn with hideous dreams.

Condos jutted out of my eyes

like a dog’s snout

chewing the inside of a can

as human mouths licked puddles

of air conditioner

water

dripping twelve stories high

in the alleyways.

Streets with cardboard beds.

Grocery carts stuffed

with drifted words

in newspaper headlines

about the animal eating the ribs

of all men eating the nightmare in me

staring at the city.

It was on all fours.

Between pots of flowers.

I’m So Glad

the dark

lake

slipped across

throats

dropped

in a cold

harbour

between pylons

near

the legless train

wrapped

in winter’s fist

punching

that whispering

floor

where dire

wolves lie

moaning

until the day is

wrung out

laughing

the most

terrible

laughter

like there’s

one gasp left

to remind us

why

we bother

at all

Photo of Ryan Di Francesco

BIO: Ryan Di Francesco (he/him) is a neurodivergent Canadian writer and teacher. His writing has appeared in The Toronto Star and is published or forthcoming in Acta Victoriana, Soliloquies Anthology, Pinhole Poetry, Pacific Review, The Pit Periodical, Milwaukee Avenue Messenger, Shoegaze Literary, Rawhead, and elsewhere. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Shadow and Sax, an independent literary and arts press. His chapbooks include Mirage of Burning Things (Parlyaree Press), Skeleton Mine Disaster (Bottlecap Press), and The Paper Hound and Canadian Classic (Alien Buddha Press). A poetry collection is forthcoming from Ethel Zine & Micro Press. He was shortlisted for the Rhonda Gail Williford Poetry Prize.