Mosaic with Death Approaching

by Dom Fonce

Viktor Forgacs

May we slice? May we sit at the table? May we stare at each other? May we sip bowls of me? A black eye separates here and gone. Somewhere, a girl spins in a green field like a top. Dress fanned out. Hair wild. See her from a down-looking view. Fall into her. Closer. Closer. Into her pupil. This is my name. Patricia. Put it in your mouth. Swallow. On the shelf goes a doll. In the cellar goes a doll. In the attic goes a doll. You will forget each. You will move on. May we slice off this slab of me? Place it down. Slice. Place it down. Halve. Quarter. Eighth. Place it down.

In a dusty corner of a frozen house, your father is a ghost, pepper-tongued, spitting violent silence into the dark, alone. His anger is thrown at himself. A crow swallows a crow. Boar swallows boar. Buck swallows buck. Empty room swallows empty room. The eye parts. Veil opens. You won’t find feathers in the yard. If one is there, you left it for yourself. John died and walked through the veil. You will walk through the veil. You walked to kindergarten by yourself every day. You walked the city blocks. Your brother was born dead. He could not walk. Then you were born and nobody was happy. Then you became a woman and nobody cared. Then you got pregnant young and everybody cared. By the bird bath goes a doll. Inside an owl’s hollow goes a doll. Buried with a dog goes a doll.

You have finished. Have more. The orange fat risen to the top. Thick, waxy layer. Break through. Stir. Serve. There will be three men, but you will only love one. If you include your father, there will be four men. You will love half of him, but claim you loved him fully. Only after sixty, seventy, eighty years will you fully love yourself. The old house has a grandfather clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. When grandma walks through the door, it stops. When she leaves, it starts again. Some magic. Inherited magic. Magic in red pumps. Look out the window. See the moon. Three women belly-dance in the yard. Three more beat on drums. See flame roll into flame. Bouquets of gray hair. Gold chains rattle. Topaz earrings swing. Warm sweat beads. Hear the crackle. Smell the smoke, incense-sweet. Feel them smack the round goat skins. Feel their hips sway towards a center. The fire. Bare feet on coals. Three and three. Inching closer into each other. Rippling focal point. For a stunning moment, they are brightness eternal. Then they disappear.

---

Dom Fonce is the author of the two poetry chapbooks, Here, We Bury the Hearts (Finishing Line Press, 2019) and Dancing in the Cobwebs (Finishing Line Press, 2022). He is an MFA candidate at the NEOMFA (Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts). His poetry has been published in Gordon Square Review, Rappahannock Review, Delmarva Review, Jenny Magazine, Sweet Tree Review, and elsewhere. He lives and writes in Youngstown, Ohio. He can be found at domfoncepoetry.com.