Prose Poem: Robert Scotellaro

Black
(originally published in Clockwise Cat)

The day they stole my father - the sky would have been black and low enough to bruise a man's shoulders. He must have been weak from the flu, a buckle beating, or a bad back - too weary to resist.

The car, I imagined: black, or a hunter's green Caddy with a shark's-teeth grill. The blacktop, a chain pulling it/him along south—blacking out from the heat. His captors in the back, on either side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Forcing him, later, to remarry - the gun metal singeing his shiny black hair.

All those miles piled up behind him - one screeching crash after another. The black heart, my mother said, he took with him - far and safe enough away - it couldn't hear a thing.

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A Pretty Rain
(originally published in Willows Wept Review)

One day it rains a pretty rain, and everyone it touches knows beauty. Cars and houses quickly empty. Already attractive people stand in it, naked, against that one gray hair or bit of flab. Plain Janes splash in its puddles with a warrior's cry; erasing the sadness from their cheeks.

But the next day an ugly rain falls, with disquieting effects. Umbrellas blossom much too late. Forecasters are stumped. People wait indoors with wart-tipped noses against the glass. Which will it be?

It's cold as the fat clouds darken. A wise snow comes, weighing on the eaves. Filling the hollows of hats, and slipping into the darkness of high boots; tracked and crunched. A deep snow. A quiet snow, gathering - nearly luminous. Whispering down and landing on wide-eyed faces. And all will have to rethink everything.