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Augury 
by Samuel Piccone

One day, the window merely became something to wear 
the starling’s blood. Even if we know better, some portents 
write themselves. The disappointing parts about life 
flashing aren’t the empty rooms, what little happened in them, 
lull flaking from the walls like calcimine paint.
I remember my mouth reliving the long vowel of arrival 
only to evolve into a hole in the cellar I plugged 
with modeling clay to erase the dead mice of their smell. 
I remember thinking, this is too easy to work and never being
more wrong about anything in my life. I’m told 
the Lord is merciful with everything save the truth, 
keeper of empty vials that He is. When the doctor ran 
his scope through me, he found exactly what I imagined: 
a whole lot of nothing getting through, bright scars in bloom
proud as ever to be there. I’m told I wouldn’t let go 
of a nurse’s blue glove, certain it was her hand. 
I’m told it was sad, how much I wanted to stay.


Samuel Piccone is the author of the chapbook Pupa (Anhinga Press, 2018). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including, Sycamore Review, Frontier Poetry, Washington Square Review, and RHINO. He serves as poetry editor at Raleigh Review, and is a lecturer at Iowa State University.

ISSN 2157-8079
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