With the ashes left behind: The poetry of Alex Marchesi

By Alex Marchesi


To Your New Address

Dear Boy,
if I ever called you romantic,
it’d have gone straight to your head.

Dear Boy,
stop thinking what you did yesterday
matters more than what you do tomorrow.
It doesn’t.

Dear Boy,
I don’t care how long you stand
on our bridge.
I don’t care how much gasoline
I have to waste.
It will burn.

Dear Boy,
I won’t care about what you write
with the ashes left behind.
You didn’t have to stand
on our burning bridge,
making wastelands of your skin,
to prove you never gave up on us.
I know you didn’t.

Dear Boy,
I’m not responsible for you.
I can’t. I won’t.
Please don’t make me.

Dear Boy,
do not panic.
Rest your heavy head here.
It’s just one more night until the next.
That’s all this is.

Sincerely, Girl




The mortician gave me a bird’s eye view
of the autopsy. Apparently, my lips were
worn down by the mouth of the devil.

My shoulders collapsed from the weight
of the world I placed on them. My chest
cavity had become a crater filled with anxiety.

My lungs had been auctioned off in my late
teens, which explains why I stayed so quiet
during my depression crisis in the early

Oswego days. My eyes were stretched out
by the bags they carried, the telltale signs
of a haunted insomniac. The most gruesome

body part was surprisingly not the heart,
which did have seven marks on it. Each one
an etching from a beloved lover. But no,

the worst sight was actually my bare hands.
All they ever wanted to do was hold someone
close, and I robbed them of that because I was

and always will be a coward.

Alex Marchesi is twenty-three years old. He has authored three novels, all inspired by his time studying creative writing at SUNY Oswego. When he’s not goofing off with his friends in Syracuse, he lives in Bayside NY with his mom and kitty cat, Tiger.

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