The Portal

planet of the blind

I lie down in wet leaves because I believe in empathy, my dead are there, my brother…

Maple leaves, waft of cinnamon, hint of whiskey….


In America you get what you pay for, but spending time on the ground costs nothing.

Here in Syracuse, winter rain, three dead apples hanging in my backyard tree


I picture the bowl of blood and milk I’ll hand to William, my twin who died at birth

As I too slip under grass, heart so full I might just live again…



Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s