Love
Makes No Sound When It Dies
I thought that love would explode when it
died,
but I was wrong.
Dying love makes the quietest sounds:
muscles, tight
from stress,
relax into
acceptance,
eyes once
narrowed in anger
turn away,
the silent
sigh of a damaged heart
begins to
mend.
The sound of love dying is
the sound of water dripping deep inside
the earth
until the ground wears away
leaving a void
that swallows everything
and returns nothing.
Bruno Rescigna
My
writing achievements include: short stories published in Elysian Fields
Quarterly and the Bucks County Writer, two one-act plays produced at the
University of New Mexico, and my poems have appeared in Tidewater’s 2022 issue,
and Literary Yard. In addition, I was a finalist in 2021’s Tucson Festival of
Books, a national poetry competition. I wish to express my appreciation to Ella
Peary and John Brehm for their editing suggestions and encouragement.