Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, and The Drum (audio), among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, The Galway Review, Bold + Italic, Litbreak, Subterranean Blue Poetry, The Blue Nib, Red Dirt Forum, and elsewhere. His chapbook, “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017 and is still available at Finishing Line Press and Amazon. His first full-length book of poetry was published last April by Kelsay Press. He’s working on another. He lives in Massachusetts.
Immigrant Story
Like lots of former thuggish fathers,
by the time I knew him,
my grandpa grew to a sweet old man.
I’d visit them on Long Island
and in the mornings, Grandma and I
rolled him slowly off their bed, laughing.
Afternoons he’d lift me to his shoulders
and skip around the small front yard
making horse sounds. Years before,
he cleaned streets of horseshit
for a living, a talented carpenter
who couldn’t find decent work.
Does that excuse his culpability?
On Saturday nights he’d drink
a bottle of Italian red
and watch mercantile Brooklyn
lively out the window before
beating his wife
in front of their three young boys
hiding under the kitchen table
covering their ears
Then one day, the oldest
slipped out of his hiding place,
grabbed Grandma’s rolling pin,
still powdery with flour,
and went after his dad
with our long-held grievance
And that was the end
of one young man
and the beginning of another.
Alexanders
Names can hold a thought
or stir a feeling
that soothes like a love-knot
or sets your heart reeling.
What’s a feeling
and what’s a thought?
Alexander Bell tapped
“What hath God wrought?”
Alexander Fleming grew
some mold; Alexander
the Great conquered the world,
Alexander Pushkin conquered the word.
I was Alexander as a boy.
Unlike the Great
I never did no killin’
but neither did I
discover Penicillin.
The Coming of Age
If you don’t own the Ritz,
Don’t look at my tits.
I’ll call the police
If you look at my ass.
Don’t look at my legs
And don’t try to beg.
Don’t look at my hips.
Don’t look at my lips.
Don’t look at my thighs.
Don’t look at my eyes.
Don’t look at my face.
You’re not in the race.
The Galway Review 