Poetry - Issue 20 | May 2014

Two poems by Gary Maggio

Church in Aravaca

I stood outside;
a narrow street was swallowed in its shadows;
I watched a boy with many bags
seated on hard earthen steps
behind the rectory.

A sullen man stood
beneath a late-flowering tree
overgrowing the churchyard
against the fence, smoking.

In a tobaca I slowly ordered
postcards of the church
and a beligraphica.

Hoping for some stamps,
I was given a choice
of cigarette lighters from a
cardboard box.

I sat, on the park
bench, a pew beneath
the spires, church swords clenched
with sunlight;
the tobacconist washed
the stones around my feet;
I wrote home,

A sad boy with many bags waited
for the rectory doors to open.
A man, angry and thin, dark,
in flowering trees, the street of Aravaca, the closed Church,
he smoked away, the shadowy morning

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About the author

Born in Brooklyn, Gary Maggio has resided and written in Albany, NY for thirty-five years. He spends his days as a standardized patient, acting and teaching for medical students, and writes memory pieces, occasionally of stays in Spain and France. Now and then his pastels pass muster and are part of juried exhibits and art shows.

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