ISSN 1551-8086
return to home search for a contributing writer

seach for poems by title

archive of previous issues submissions information mailing list online store links to other interesting sites contact us  
  November 2004
volume 2 number 4
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  prose
  Michelle Brodeur
  Nika Cavat
  Francisco Dominguez
  Dale Duke
  Ron Dvorkin
  Erik Haber
  Marie Lecrivain
  Laura A. Lionello
  Patrick Mooney
  Greggory Moore
  Kevin Stricke-9
  Gregory T. Young
 
  home
  poets
  poems
  archive
  submissions
  mailing list
  store
  links
  contact
   
Laura A. Lionello
November 2004
   

 

bio


    Laura A. Lionello now lives in her hometown of Chicago, but she strangely misses Santa Monica. Actually, she missed you. Her poetry has been published in A Galaxy of Verse, Anthology, Celebration, Matrix (Germany), everything about you is beautiful, green room confessionals, Penumbra, Portland Review, The Blue House, Threshold, and others. In addition to being the poetry editor for poeticdiversity, Laura is a freelance writer and editor for a series of publishers and individuals.

laura@lionrealm.com

   

 

A Love Story

    As Jacob Leber’s left heel touches the parquet floor in the entranceway to his house at 5822 Central Avenue he whispers, “Seventeen.” He looks up the carpeted stairs in front of him and knows that his wife Lilly is dead upstairs. He knows this, of course, because he killed her a day-and-a-half ago.
    At step sixteen he is on the other side of the threshold slowly inserting the gold OSH key into the lock. The familiar click of teeth fitting neatly into notches is satisfying though his left thigh begins to twitch. He sighs and bites his upper lip. There is such a mess inside. The hollow point bullet from the 9 mm glock left a neat, half-inch hole in her neck just above the collarbone but a full three-inch explosion on the other side. Tiny shards of bone fragments, flesh clumps, and muscle tissue splattered on the wall and bedspread, now dry and crusty. He wonders how the room will smell.
    Thir-teen…four-teen…fif-teen— He skips up the cement stairs and grasps the paper grocery bag filled with cleaning products a bit tighter. At step twelve he wonders again if the bullet had become lodged in the east wall of the bedroom. From step six to step eleven he traverses the cement river of the walkway from the driveway to the base of the staircase. He inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders straight. He remembers his mother and avoids the cracks in the sidewalk. She would have been 71 this year.
    Five: Did he fax the loan agreement to the new client with the long, sandy hair and the pink high-heeled shoes? Four: Did the bullet become lodged in the east wall of the bedroom? Three: What will I do without Lilly? What will I do without Lilly? What will I do without Lilly? Two: He slams closed the door of the Buick and slides the fingers of his right hand along the maroon hood as he walks. It is smooth and warm, comforting. He feels a tingle in his genitals.
    One: He thinks he will have chicken and rice for dinner.

copyright 2004 Laura A. Lionello