The Sisters – by Alec Solomita

 

The nun instructs her passing brood,
taming them with a wooden rule.

Compared to humility – obedience, chastity, and poverty
are child’s play.

Her intimates dazzle – sister of St. Joseph!
bride of Christ!

When nuns gather together to pray,
their devotions skitter like bats over lakes,
riffling the water’s surface.

Housed in her habit, the nun feels at ease when,
after vespers, she unfastens her rosary,
slips her underskirts and sits by an open window.

In the night, she dreams of a water lily.

What she believes is scary and ravishing
Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem,
factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium
et invisibilium

Mother Superior perches on a bough
above the snow, her eyes everywhere.

Sister Francesca, cranky as an old wife,
reads John Greenleaf Whittier
to a roomful of ink wells.

The mortal remains of Sister Marie Perpetua
disperse in St. Patrick’s Cemetery
while her soul slow-dances with the Lord.

 

 

Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in, among other publications, The Adirondack ReviewThe Mississippi Review, and Southwest Review. He’s published poetry in MockingHeart ReviewLiterary OrphansSilver Birch Press, and many other venues. His chapbook, DO NOT FORSAKE ME, is forthcoming, to be published by Finishing Line Press.

I’m Walking Home – by Alec Solomita

 

I’m walking home from the convenience store
thinking about an old girlfriend who shape-
shifted into nü gui one summer evening
when a stone garden cat gives me the eye
and the creeps. I’ve got three almond
Hershey bars in my pocket for the mad wife,
and a package of peanut M&M’s for me.
The street’s dark and cold and when the
wind picks up, I roll myself into a ball
and turn around to avoid the sting, facing
where I’ve been, the wind at my back
and remember how I dreamt about women again
the night before. I dream about women almost
every night next to her coarse quiet breathing.
And then I remember the scene in Fargo where Mike
Yanagita at the Radisson restaurant tries to put up
a good front for Marge Gunderson then falls to pieces,
and Marge delicately lowers her head to her diet Coke.

 

 

 

Alec Solomita lives in Somerville, Mass., USA. His fiction has appeared in, among other publications, The Adirondack ReviewThe Mississippi ReviewSouthwest Review and Ireland’s Southword Journal. Recently, he’s published poetry in Literary OrphansSilver Birch PressTurk’s Head ReviewAlgebra of OwlsDriftwood Press, and The Fourth River.

The Black Spit of The Red Wine Drinker – by Alec Solomita

 

They can say whatever they want. But you know, she talks so slowly I could love her forever. I’m so glad she found me. This has been kind of a rough summer for me. My girlfriend left me. My wife’s sick. My shrink has been acting really hostile. My back went out. The weather’s been wacky, too. And what with the frankenfish and the hogweed scares, it’s just a creepy time. And then this girl comes through the bar’s dark and says, I have a feeling I’m going to love you more than God loves Wonder Bread, in a tone so languid the sentence lasted minutes. I said, well there’s a lot you don’t know about me. And she says, I don’t know anything about you. I paused and looked down, I shot that man on purpose. Luckily, she said, I have the resilience of an abused child.

 

 

 

Alec Solomita has published fiction in The Adirondack Review, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review and elsewhere. His poetry has appeared in, among others, 3Elements Literary Review, Literary Orphans, Silver Birch Press, and, forthcoming, Driftwood Press and Fulcrum: An International Anthology of Poetry and Aesthetics. He lives in Somerville, Mass.

Some of his other published poems can be found here: Invisible, Pulpy the Wit and Upstate/I’ve Come to Think