Edward Maietta

Because a woman who thwarts a man’s attempt to kill is always a rebel


Castanets cricket click


My father had castanets, made them sing,

Yet those same hands


Paint penetrates the surface, the rest inviolate

He could paint in oils

But that dexterity abandoned reason when


Horns moaning for lost things

His saxophone

Angelic on nonviolent nights

Still, that voice broke


Me for so long

And that one time

Round, small, on short legs,

She came just in time

Ruined his kicking aim


My head remains

Inviolate, though hairless

Not quite broken

And to friends, neighbors, lost loves

I say, my tools nearby,

I love fixing things







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Shawangunk Review Volume XXXII Copyright © 2021 by Edward Maietta is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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