SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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August 5~ RYAN DI FRANCESCO

8/5/2025

 
SHINE poetry fans, today we welcome Canadian writer Ryan Di Francesco with two poems, "The Heart of the Onion," and "Putting Her Face On." Ryan's poems address the very relatable mental health issues and work demands of our modern era. Thank you, Ryan, for sharing your words!

The Heart of the Onion

I am as still and as solemn
as a statue
in the suburban 8 o’clock morning light
partly because I can’t sleep.

Partly because of my depression.

Partly because of myself.

I am finishing my third cup of coffee,
thinking about having a Coke with that New York poet O’Hara,
wondering why in the world anyone wakes up.

She comes barreling down the stairs.

“I’m tired,” I say.

“Me too,” she answers.
“I give up,” she says.

“I don’t care anymore.”

Then pauses.

“Call your mom
and tell her not to come over Saturday.”

I wish I could.

I wish there was nothing but time
to do nothing in.

She climbs the stairs
to get back to her computer
for a Zoom with the CEO
of the company she works for.

I stare out the window
at the old maple tree across the street
and watch a few lingering
yellow leaves on the branches,
drifting like people outside a plaza.

I close my eyes.

My hands feel like they were stabbed by a fork.

I imagine cutting them off,
feeding them to the dog,
watching it eat it all the way down
to the heart of the onion,
until it turns back to look at me

and pauses.

It’s all very quiet now.

I want to go back to sleep.

But I have to get to work too.

I finish my coffee before the day begins
and see my mom has texted
to confirm we’re still on for Saturday.

I replied:

Yes! 

Putting Her Face On

she fell
into an

empty vase

with murky
rose water

and

drowned
in sorrow

again

wandering in
the autumn

streets behind

her eyes
spilling onto

hardwood

standing
in a puddle

of nightmares
mourning herself

before

putting her
face on

for work

as if it were
her choice
Picture
Ryan Di Francesco is a Canadian writer and teacher with a BA in English Literature. He is the lead editor of Shadow and Sax, an emerging Canadian literary magazine, where his poetry and short fiction have appeared. His work is forthcoming in SQUID Magazine and The Orange Rose, and his non-fiction has been published in The Toronto Star and The Hardball Times and others. He is also the co-writer of the indie film "Streets of Wonderland."


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    SHINE - International Poetry Series

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    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is SHINE's honor to provide a home for their words with the online Spotlight series as well as SHINE Quarterly. Click on the logo above to learn more. And...keep writing, keep shining!
    In poetry,
    Samantha Terrell, EIC
    SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars Over the Dordogne

    Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
    Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
    Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
    The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
    They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
    Nor do they send up fires where they fall
    Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
    They are eaten immediately by the pines.

    Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
    Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
    And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
    The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
    But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
    They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
    But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
    They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

    The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
    I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
    Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
    Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
    Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
    Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
    I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
    Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

    And what if the sky here is no different,
    And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
    Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
    The few I am used to are plain and durable;
    I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
    Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
    They are too puritan and solitary for that--
    When one of them falls it leaves a space,

    A sense of absence in its old shining place.
    And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
    I see those constellations in my head,
    Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
    There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
    On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
    Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
    And drink the small night chill like news of home.

    ~~~

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