Anthony Liccione

Anthony Liccione

 
August 13 2014

And The Window Cried

Anthony Liccione

 

The dog leash was still tied tight around the oak tree in the back, stretched worn and limp across the green grass as if trying to escape to freedom; and he buried his wife without a tombstone. Where before, she sat most times in his home, licking her wounds.  -Anthony Liccione

 

And The Window Cried

“It was the last,” she promised.
this time the police didn’t come;
she just left on a day it rained.
she packed up all of her goods
and left the bad of four years.
three in the morning
didn’t account for the strike-
“but i was uncontrollable.”
i tried to tell her the booze
left the bruise on her right eye,
but behind she knew it was really i.

Winter had passed
and we decided to paint
our first-bought house
sunshine yellow,
replacing the gray.
i promised i would quit,
some time elapsed
and so did my promise.
and here i sit
ten months later
before the window
in a yellow house
on a wet day
with a beer in my hand

Thinking,
and the window cried outside.

 

Anthony Liccione