Tag Archives: Lisa Pellegrini

The Old Neighborhood

The old man with flaxen fingers and smoke-clogged breath was sitting on the stoop in front of his shack home, crumpled dollar bills spilling out of his pockets like suicidal paper rain. The wooden slats were thick with ants that … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Little Pumpkins

The scales on my hands remind me of those times, though they look more like amoebas or goblins. They were sold out before mid-October, and the plumpest and squattiest ones at that, the ones with stems that curl under like … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment