A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms


Jan Bottiglieri

When you were born, it snowed. You cried
your startled mew. Your eyes were wide
and blue. The nurses checked the chart
of standards, measuring each part
of you. Snow caught the light. You sighed,

zipped tight and warm for that long ride
home. Life began. Your size belied
your charm: it was your gift, your art,
when you were born.

Now snow again, lights, joy: the tide
of two years since that night. True, I’d
lost much: but Charlie, the sweet part
of living with that cracked-wide heart
was how, snow-soft, you slipped inside
when you were born.

Jan Bottiglieri is a poet and freelance writer living in Schaumburg, Illinois. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University, and is an associate editor with the poetry annual RHINO. Previous publications include work in Rattle, Margie, Atticus Review, and Diagram.


—Back to Contents—