Dom Fonce is a poet from Youngstown, Ohio. He is the author of Here, We Bury the Hearts (Finishing Line Press, 2019). He is the Editor-in-Chief of Volney Road Review. His poetry has been published in the Tishman Review, Obra/Artifact, Burning House Press, Black Rabbit Quarterly, Italian Americana, 3Elements Review, Junto Magazine, America’s Best Emerging Poets 2018: Midwest Region, and elsewhere.
“She said, ‘Lift.’ ” and “She said, ‘Let go—I’m a memory. I’m not real.’ ”
I remember being told to soak
myself in unreason—that words
fall to pieces because the wind
needs her role; not everything
must be a weight to grunt over.
myself in unreason—that words
fall to pieces because the wind
needs her role; not everything
must be a weight to grunt over.
Poetry
Issue 32
Song for Circe
Oh, Anna Marie,
the Ohio grass was green
the trees were
green has died
in your winter
lightning strikes fork on
your temple tremors these
Shawshank cornerstones fall to dirt
shakes and groans in thirsting throats
the Ohio grass was green
the trees were
green has died
in your winter
lightning strikes fork on
your temple tremors these
Shawshank cornerstones fall to dirt
shakes and groans in thirsting throats
Poetry
Issue 23
Dom Fonce
Dom Fonce is a poet from Youngstown, Ohio. He is the author of Here, We Bury the Hearts (Finishing Line Press, 2019). He is the Editor-in-Chief of Volney Road Review. His poetry has been published in the Tishman Review, Obra/Artifact, Burning House Press, Black Rabbit Quarterly, Italian Americana, 3Elements Review, Junto Magazine, America’s Best Emerging Poets 2018: Midwest Region, and elsewhere.
“She said, ‘Lift.’ ” and “She said, ‘Let go—I’m a memory. I’m not real.’ ”
I remember being told to soak
myself in unreason—that words
fall to pieces because the wind
needs her role; not everything
must be a weight to grunt over.
myself in unreason—that words
fall to pieces because the wind
needs her role; not everything
must be a weight to grunt over.
Poetry
Issue 32
Song for Circe
Oh, Anna Marie,
the Ohio grass was green
the trees were
green has died
in your winter
lightning strikes fork on
your temple tremors these
Shawshank cornerstones fall to dirt
shakes and groans in thirsting throats
the Ohio grass was green
the trees were
green has died
in your winter
lightning strikes fork on
your temple tremors these
Shawshank cornerstones fall to dirt
shakes and groans in thirsting throats
Poetry
Issue 23