The Recumbent Gypsy My grandmother Was a gypsy She just didn’t know it Yet There are swabs of spit That return a sequence Telling me What can never be known- The sun on her face On Easter morning An autumn chill in her hands And everything else Between the dates On a tombstone That no one visits Anymore
Matthew Banash was born and raised in Pennsylvania and has lived in the Carolinas for the past twenty-five years. He has an M.A. in English from Clemson University and writes poetry and short fiction as well as jazz reviews. His work has appeared in Poetry Quarterly, The Blue Nib, Micro Fiction Monday, Crack the Spine, Bridge Eight, Barren Magazine and Maryland Literary Review.
Grand Little Things 