Poetry by Tiffany Sciacca
Fever Dream #1
I wake to a lemon tree at the footboard, cats huddled
in its bough—Our blanket, bottom heavy stinks of salted fish
& wet sand lines my middle-part, collects in my collarbone.
Seagull beneath our bed claws the wood for composure and
you are at an open window, fishing bottles from the water,
fishing notes from the bottles--
Your mother says hello.
Wonders why you never call.
Is worried, you are distant.
And older now.
Wonders why you never call.
Bottles fly over your left shoulder, just missing my head, I am frozen.
Fever Dream #2
I woke up cold. Smoke from burning
bacon curtained the room, you were
outside our door ear, an orchid pressed
against the frosted glass—I coughed twice
for assurance, I am okay. I will miss you.
I understand, I open the door—Watch
you return to bed, slip under the covers
disregarding mother, smoothing the groove
you left behind.
Birthday
I am wearing a native dress I would like to think you made for me, so
it will be. This is my gift to you. It was Jade green, stopped just above
my ashy knees, made a sound like paper flowers as I walked to the table.
The dining room went dark, smelled of orchids and Sphagnum moss, was
unusually warm for October—Girls were laughing around and under the
table; I could hear palms slap down like placemats, so lucky to have
so many friends, a birthday cake floats higher than our heads from kitchen
to table, candles burn with bent flames; I make the same wish I make
every year then the light comes on. A dozen paper plates match tablecloth,
streamers and balloons—This laughter is my invention, so are the friends.
Afterthoughts make moments, momentous. This is another gift for you.
I stare down my HAPPY BIRTHDAY, cake layers sealed in cotton white frosting,
rippled, so my name starts with a fancy "T," roses, blood red, sun yellow, border
the cake, you make the first slice between layers of sliced bananas, sliced strawberries.
I have the same cake every year, only Grandma bakes me chocolate. You hold your plate
like a prize, having already taken your fork to the point, eating your bite in slow motion,
moaning while I excavate my slice, cutting away bleeding strawberries from brown
bananas, soggy crumbs, I enjoy the remaining splinter with relish.
I wake to a lemon tree at the footboard, cats huddled
in its bough—Our blanket, bottom heavy stinks of salted fish
& wet sand lines my middle-part, collects in my collarbone.
Seagull beneath our bed claws the wood for composure and
you are at an open window, fishing bottles from the water,
fishing notes from the bottles--
Your mother says hello.
Wonders why you never call.
Is worried, you are distant.
And older now.
Wonders why you never call.
Bottles fly over your left shoulder, just missing my head, I am frozen.
Fever Dream #2
I woke up cold. Smoke from burning
bacon curtained the room, you were
outside our door ear, an orchid pressed
against the frosted glass—I coughed twice
for assurance, I am okay. I will miss you.
I understand, I open the door—Watch
you return to bed, slip under the covers
disregarding mother, smoothing the groove
you left behind.
Birthday
I am wearing a native dress I would like to think you made for me, so
it will be. This is my gift to you. It was Jade green, stopped just above
my ashy knees, made a sound like paper flowers as I walked to the table.
The dining room went dark, smelled of orchids and Sphagnum moss, was
unusually warm for October—Girls were laughing around and under the
table; I could hear palms slap down like placemats, so lucky to have
so many friends, a birthday cake floats higher than our heads from kitchen
to table, candles burn with bent flames; I make the same wish I make
every year then the light comes on. A dozen paper plates match tablecloth,
streamers and balloons—This laughter is my invention, so are the friends.
Afterthoughts make moments, momentous. This is another gift for you.
I stare down my HAPPY BIRTHDAY, cake layers sealed in cotton white frosting,
rippled, so my name starts with a fancy "T," roses, blood red, sun yellow, border
the cake, you make the first slice between layers of sliced bananas, sliced strawberries.
I have the same cake every year, only Grandma bakes me chocolate. You hold your plate
like a prize, having already taken your fork to the point, eating your bite in slow motion,
moaning while I excavate my slice, cutting away bleeding strawberries from brown
bananas, soggy crumbs, I enjoy the remaining splinter with relish.
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Tiffany Sciacca is a writer who has recently moved to Sicily from the Midwest. Tiffany is currently a staff writer at Luna Luna Magazine. Tiffany’s work has appeared in the Silver Birch Press, SOFTBLOW, and DNA Magazine UK. When she is not learning a new language or trying to blend in, she is reading old poetry anthologies, binging Nordic Noir or of course, writing.
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