Luke Marinac


They come from Edo,
pick Tomatoes in the sun.
Stretch out on a lonely strada, float in the river Po.

Crow's tease out thread from
fish-net roosts—
the pull-offs of Logo Patrian curves.

Camorran smiles, jeweled
pinky ring, machine-pistol soot
beneath a polished nail

—vague human
shapes burning
in a pile of tire rinds.

Fear round eyes,
an olive sprig—
blood on the reeds.

Giuseppe Setola , the Casalesi sons.
Crime of crystal glass— peony-lapeled
killers, unschooled in la vecchio modo

machete-excavate hearts—
Pietrelcinian grapes—
split between teeth.

Men who worship red Gods,
an old language
smells of dirt after rain.

Luke Marinac lives in Knoxville and attends the University of Tennessee. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in North Central Review, Gingerbread House, Polaris,The Siren and Unlikely 2.0!.

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