Samuel Piccone
Not a spread too big. Too brightly littered
with faith. How long one can soften into
night, I can’t say. There’s so much water
I hardly notice: the snow and snowing,
the bathtub filled with my wife, melting ice
in her glass, steam in the shape of
leaving a room. The way a deer pauses
in the yard, lets me frame it in the window.
I hope let is the right word. Is worth
unreduced to being measured. A home
wherein the only child is asleep
and mercifully so. And winter’s orange
and the flintcraw world, needle in the hay
and blah blah blah. I’m going to kill myself
tomorrow. Man, I love that movie.
Samuel Piccone is the author of Domestica (University of Arkansas Press, 2026), winner of the 2025 Miller Williams Prize. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including, swamp pink, Frontier Poetry, Washington Square Review, and RHINO. He serves as poetry editor at Raleigh Review, and is an assistant teaching professor at Iowa State University.