Tiffany Sciacca has recently moved from a small town in Illinois to a small town
in Sicily. Tiffany's work has appeared in the Silver Birch Press. When she is not
tripping over her new language or dodging curious stares, she reads horror
anthologies, watches Nordic Noir, and of course, writes poetry.


A handful of countries drift from corner
to corner across the hot asphalt.
Children of war,
Children of loss.

Most have assimilated—
Saggy jeans, Moschino,
wide smiles, fluid tongue.

Others still bear their soil—
Mudcloth dress, secondhand sweater.
Hair twisted into silken twigs or cut close to the head.

Within earshot of the tall glass doors stands a family.
Dominoes under the Sicilian sun, turning whenever
a number is called even if not their own.


Your mother deems
you have your Nonna's
legs. Short but strong. Sun
burnt, rough trunk
of a Stone Pine.

Calves tight, pale,
and smooth.
Toenails bent, inclined to split
like long dead wood.

You insert facts in between
her flights—insist your legs
are your father's legs as she
leans in again, retracing false
relations, unaware she has forgotten her husband's landscape.


At first, each in his place—
Lines drawn long ago,
blurred by an error
of nostalgia.

Then a word slipped
under the skin,
close to where
the blood ran
thickest, breaks his reverie

and hearts on the table,
throne upturned. Father, son,
mother entangled, heels

digging deep, in the slough
of the past and somewhere
a line is redrawn.

Harlem 1972
(An Ekphrastic poem)

'Two Al's Variety Shop'
Read a newspaper while you wait.
Shoe Shines Inside—

Outside, two couples sitting in
mixed matched prints, cuss the heat
as they sweat in the shade
and smoke. Dark fingers drumming, ashy feet
kicking at the flies.

One woman stares through a trail
of girls all smiles, racing by on flat feet,
and hopes, when they've grown and gone
they will have forgotten all about this block.

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