poem index

poet

David Petruzelli

by this poet

poem
When I was eight months old, Jackson Pollock

stuck his hand in my crib and let me squeeze

one of his fingers. He was in my parents' kitchen

in Hoboken, where we lived for three years;

he said the new linoleum reminded him

of one of his paintings. Every time my mother

tells the story, she always adds, "this