Alex Stolis




Didn’t get much sleep.
There was a bird—I think—
or something. Screeching.
Distressed. Panic
dopplered from backyard
past the neighbors and back.

Yesterday, I walked
Daisy. She sniffed a turkey
carcass, then rabbit; clocked
coyote scat on the drive.
Piled like a middle finger
daring me to do something.

I’m used to shrieking sirens
whirling cherries,
gunshots— a hollered
Hey motherfucker
puncturing my sleep.
Morning sun blottoed
by parking lot floodlights.

I roll out of bed, try to peer
out the window. No streetlamps,
no moon. No animal I can see.

The screech/howl limps away.
I take a piss. Grab a drink
of water. I don’t want to write
like Bukowski. He’s a drunk
and I’m sober. He’s dead.
I’m alive.





Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press. He lives in Hudson Valley of New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.