in parentheses

Cory Fosco received his MA, Creative Writing (nonfiction) from Northwestern University and his BA, Creative writing (fiction) from Loyola University Chicago. He has previously been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Teach, Write, Superstition Review, and Hippocampus Magazine.

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Magnetic Words

I’m among fragile laughter.
Hidden in me is a romantic beast
strong like death beyond devotion.
Let us deliver to each other
a chocolate rainbow.
Not because it is beautiful,
but together we can smile
while warning children not to grow.

I’ve Been Here

Before my grandmother
took her last breath
she smiled at me
knowing.

As my grandfather
rubbed himself raw
against white bed sheets
in a hospice bed
calling out
for his younger brother
he smiled at me
knowing.

When I signed the papers
to end the artificial breathing,
standing together
we watched our father die.

I smiled to myself
knowing.

Pie

I ate dinner the other night
in The Omega Family Style Restaurant the last place my uncle
was seen alive.

The place was crowded
with large-sized families.
We were only four and sat in a corner booth.
It was early in the evening.
I ordered a tuna sandwich with french fries.
Everyone else ordered patty melts and chocolate shakes.
I wasn’t very hungry and thought about the soup.

Outside a street runs parallel.
A sign reads no left turn.
It’s still there, untouched and fading.

My uncle
didn’t figure
on getting struck
head on
by a young man
speeding and drunk.
My uncle,
the sober alcoholic.
He was on the right path,
wrong street.

That was the same day I heard Whitney Houston
was a lesbian. I am superstitious
and don’t repeat that aloud.
That’s not what this is about. It’s about
a life ending years ago. Too short.
It’s about not being able to introduce my wife
to all of my family. It’s about remembering.
It’s about my wife feeling she will die
before turning thirty. It can be about whatever
or nothing. My uncle was older when he died;
was supposed to die young. He liked to drink.
Loved pills and women more.

After the funeral,
my mother’s cousin ate a piece of pie.
Coconut cream with chocolate shavings.
He wasn’t hungry, but ate it anyway.
He felt ashamed after eating the slice.
He sat staring at the empty plate
shaking his head and sighing.
I told him it was okay.
Pie is good.

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