Earwig You hatched from your mottled egg Glossy black, like a coffee bean. Dexterous and slim, you unhinged A crooked quickness from calamity Into the fissures of furniture And ill-fitting floor trim. Once, in horror, I watched you slide From the plastic holes Of a 60’s telephone receiver. Pincers mongering old wives’ tales. Insinuating dread into ear canals, Membrane and sinew. Entering The sacristy of brain tissue To clip away at reason. Bleeding me. Curious, I searched the science Of your claws’ evolutionary purpose, Discovering their lack of sinister motives: Just sensual arms for gripping mates. It made me think of the silhouette of a man I saw once through a pub window. Arms gesticulating explanations To the still shadow of a woman Sitting across from him. In the light, behind the frosted glass His arms moved like that. Hands stiff like meat hooks. One night while I sleep, You will exit From your refuge of wall and floorboard To clank your tiny, armored shell Onto the polished wood of my night table. You will dare your way upon my pillow Dangling from hair to skin Tearing me from sleep With the sudden tickle Of everything I have been averting, As you knock unexpectedly From the invisible apertures Of my seemingly safe house. The Possum and The Moon Are out tonight And they are not the only ones On this cool May dusk. The moon, a plate Of abundant metaphors Spills out its captive sunlight, While beyond the tallest pines Cassiopeia’s brightest point, Blazes a beauty mark. I stand in my unavenged wonder Inside the star-lit glass dome Of this terrestrial sublunary World, womb of my skull’s carapace. I have placed slices of bread And cut apples for the possum Who visits my stone porch At the closing of each sunset, When humans recede To their slumber And animals surface Seeking sustenance Safe at last in the night's cover. Just me, the moon, a stone's throw Of stars and the possum As the trees charcoal Into night forests, nestling God’s creatures in their nests. The possum’s hands, my hands, The silent atrocities of nature’s food chain. My own angst and tragedies. The planetary remoteness Of this night’s own sadness At the defeat of light By all its negations, Except for the captive refractions Of it in the blink of each star Each stone, bloom, and animal, Silvering Earth and the face of the moon.
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Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews
was born in Italy in 1955. She emigrated to Canada with her family in 1968, at the age of twelve. She attended University of Toronto where she pursued an Honors Degree in French and Italian Literature; a Bachelor of Education; a Masters in Educational Administration and a Masters in Italian Literature. After graduating, she taught French and Italian for many years at the elementary, secondary and post secondary levels. Her love of literature eventually led her back to take writing courses through the University of Toronto and she alson joined the Ontario Poetry Society, where she is now manager for the Oakville chapter; the League of Canadian Poets; the Canadian Italian Writers Association; and the Heliconian Club for Women in the Literary Arts of Toronto.
Josie has published seven collections of poetry: The Whispers of Stones, Beret Days Press, 2007; Sea Glass, Espresso Bar Publishing, 2008; The Red Accordion, Lyrical Myrical Press, 2014; Letters from the Singularity, In Our Words Inc. 2015; A Jar of Fireflies, Mosaic Press, 2015; Sunrise Over Lake Ontario, Espresso Bar Publishing, 2017; and Meta Stasis, Mosaic Press, 2021. As well, she has published two non-fiction books: How the Italians Created Canada, Lone Pine Publishing/ Dragon Hill Press, 2007; and In The Name of Hockey, Friesen Press, 2010. Some of her poems have been translated into Spanish, Chinese, Italian and Farsi. Her work has been widely published in literary journals, magazines and anthology collections, among which, Ireland’s The Blue Nib, India’s Litterateur and France’s Lothalorian. Some of her poetry is showcased on The Niagara Falls Poetry Project Website, Poem Hunter, University of Toronto Radio, Ottawa Farsi Radio’s Namashoum Poetry Show, Eh Poetry Canadian Poetry Podcast and BBC’s David Vickery’s poetry podcast.
Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews’ poem In Those Meticulous Rituals of Dressing for Our Sunday Best, has recently won a jury prize in the International Poetry Prize in Rome, Italy’s Citta del Galateo poetry contest for poets writing in English. Her poem The First Time I Heard Leonard Cohen is being nominated for a Pushcart Prize this fall. Her poems have been shortlisted for The Malahat Review’s Open Season Award; Descant’s Winston Collins Best Canadian Poem Prize; and The Canada Literary Review’s Summer Poetry Competition.
Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews passions are her sons, family and friends, nature, words, music, books and all things beautiful. She lives and writes in Oakville, Ontario, Canada.
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