By Ben Nardolilli
No harvest this year, the shade and water
Have turned the stalks to brown
And made the leaves drop off early,
No fruits have shown up and fallen,
The squirrels and other mammals
Have given me no trouble over this patch,
I have only grown a home for flies,
Beetles, and spiders to crawl through,
Nothing of my mother’s luck remains
Though she once reserved all her violence
For a trowel, hoe, and small shovel
To tear through this clay choked ground.
Ben Nardolilli is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Montclair, New Jersey. His work has appeared in the Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, Scythe, Anemone Sidecar, The Delmarva Review, Contemporary American Voices, SoMa Literary Review, Gloom Cupboard, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Black Words on White Paper, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly. He maintains a blog and is looking to publish his first novel.
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