Monday 5 August 2013

3 Poems by Anne Rucchetto


Their immured union
signaled by mutual alteration:
plucking each other bald,
these scholars of loss.


Under the benevolent gaze
of academic portraits and swathed
by a cream puff duvet
sleep is all strain.
Stiff but stirring,
under smoke-reek covers
thin walls animate
the rustlings and
footsteps across the
short hall.

Alone, when she is only
a few feet away,
quick breath and
clenched fists lead
stray thoughts to
the pinnacle of late
night imagination.

A confusing scenario,
paired with agonizing
suspense, made worse
as her footsteps seem endless


In the dark you appear nothing but a startling mass,
the length of a toddler’s forefinger,
a subtle and mysterious streak of shadow.

It is in the light that your true form
becomes visible.
Legs upon legs,
long thin, spindly, striped,
stemming from a deformed
and abhorrent beast.
Silent and scuttling, you run
like a lightning bolt,
attacking unannounced.
In death, you squirm and quiver:
a full-bodied snarl,
truly determined predator that you are,
reaching, clawing,


Anne Rucchetto is a writer working and studying in her native Toronto. She is the current Senior Poetry Editor of the Hart House Review, a former editor at The Strand, and a contributor for The Varsity Newspaper. Her poetry has been published in Poet's Ink, ditch, The Sheltered Poet, Acta Victoriana, The Trinity Review, and Shorthand. She has other non-fiction work published through Camberely Press.

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