‘The City Cemetery’, ‘Silver Nickels’ & ‘Super Center Exercises’

Shelbey Leco is a mixed media artist. Her style was heavily influenced by her grandmother growing up. As a child, when spending time with her grandmother, Leco enjoyed coloring in giant coloring books. Her grandmother soon realized that Shelbey went through art supplies rather quickly. So, her grandmother taught her the art of zentangle, by creating various patterns and shapes within negative spaces. Through time, Leco’s work developed more into mixed media, however repetition and pattern work is present in her work today.

The City Cemetery

Ablution of the dead, 

the washing of the body 

is called ghusl 

in Islam; Judaism calls 

this taharah. 

But how does one bathe 

an infant, a tangle 

of intestines & limbs 

from eyes of the witness, 

or clean a coagulated 

collage of massacre? 

How does one 

carry charred carcasses 

from beds & not call 

every moment, 

a grave in the cemetery? 

How does one 

leave space for ablution 

of a body inside 

a missile, or 

rinse blood from the city 

bombs cremated? 

How does one wash this? 

How does one prepare 

this for a return 

to God?

Silver Nickels

I shake two silver 

nickels in my 

palm. 

I’ll lay 

the pair on 

the butcher-block 

counter to pay for 

two grenade

juices 

at the blue corner 

store. Pops & I 

stroll 

the 

unpaved path 

along Carver Drive, 

flattened by shoes 

hard as the grit 

that

remains. Pops chucks 

deuces to L**** 

washing a

Corolla 

at his “CAR WASH.” 

He lifts his chin, 

chucks 

deuces back. L****’s

golden grin

gleams—

he’s

been Pops’ pal  

since sophomores

at Killian High.

The store—a finch 

flies thru doors, 

sliding 

open 

& groaning, like 

K**** mumbling, &

mopping linoleum 

floors. Marlboro 

trucker 

cap is pulled low, as 

Barry’s baritone. 

Boom-box, 

Barry White bellows. 

White-capped 

Butchers,

bob & 

groove wrapped 

in sunlight beaming 

thru windows, while 

wrapping paper

over 

chicken-quarters, & 

full racks of ribs. 

Later this afternoon, 

meat’ll sizzle & 

smoke

on Buick-sized 

barbecue smokers—

aroma billowing up. 

Distant thunder

is God’s 

belly 

grumbling. 

Fluorescents flicker, 

a dim EXIT sign 

hangs 

over a

dark & narrow 

corridor. At the end, 

light glows between 

black burglar

bars. 

Like 

fractured 

ceramic, black bars 

contour white light 

into a Monarch 

butterfly. 

Stacked 

blue milk crates 

cradle kaleidoscopes—

grenade-juice flavors. 

I grab two orange—

one 

for now, one for later. 

“Now & Laters”, 

tie-dye

candy 

packages stripe 

the beige racks above. 

They’ll quench thirst 

for the rainbow 

I saw 

on the way. I rub two 

nickels, nickels 

too few

by two. Pops presses

four nickels to 

my palm. 

He smirks & says, 

“Grab a blue one too.”

Super Center Exercises

breathe

survey & move.

strafe near shelter, 

coolers & food 

shelves. 

grab

groceries. map 

exit signs glowing 

red, 

transfusion tubes

when a shooter 

sees red

on Sunday, the sun

holy & blooming. 

breathe

we, & the children

soldier plain 

clothed. 

mission, 

elude grocery lists 

coroners carry

out in

body bags. school

is tomorrow. 

breathe

guard’s radio buzzes 

like swarming

wasps. 

a man 

wearing fatigues 

advances. I fatigue. 

breathe

vertigo, 

I sink into camo’s 

pixelated pattern, 

each pixel a brick 

laid for a tomb. 

breathe

I pant. a child hugs

his hand. WILLIS,

Army. 

breathe

in line, monitor 

front door, exit.

ride gloomy byways 

back to Reunion

Resort. 

Buffalo & Uvalde

dims Reuter’s 

newsfeed. 

breathe

normal stiffens & is

in rigor-mortis. 

breathe

Monday is coming. 

May thirtieth, 

Memorial 

Day, school holiday. 

Breathe

Anthony Collins wrote his first poetry book in kindergarten. It was a project assigned by his then teacher, Ms. Kohler. This started Anthony’s lifelong relationship with poetry. As an infant, Anthony suffered from a condition that impaired his hearing. This went undetected until his late grandmother performed a hearing test, involving banging pots and pans. Though simple, that test changed Anthony’s life. Surgery corrected Anthony’s hearing, though he’d struggle with speech for some time. Poetry became his language of self expression. As the years passed, Anthony put the good, bad, and the mundane of life growing up during nineties-era Miami, Florida. During college, Anthony found community in poetry. He was published during his senior year of college in the 2009 issue of “The Cypress Dome”—a literary magazine at University of Central Florida, where he studied creative writing. Studying prominent poets like Nikki Giovanni helped Anthony hone his craft. Toward the end of college, he began performing at Austin’s Coffee Shop, an open mic venue near Orlando, Florida. Austin’s is where Anthony discovered spoken word. Anthony met his now wife shortly after college, with whom he now shares a wonderful life and two children. He wrote after marrying and having kids, but less. Then the pandemic happened. Furloughed and stuck indoors, Anthony’s passion for poetry reignited. Father’s Day 2023, his wife surprised him with a trip to an open mic called “Authentic Selves” hosted by Timucua Arts Foundation in Orlando. He’s performed most every 3rd Sunday since. November 2023, he was the feature artist at Timucua. He’s performed as the resident poet, and even hosted, at other local events across the community, or just popped up for open mics. Anthony’s poetry uses vivid imagery, story, and rhythm in exploring themes of race, identity, and mental health. Many of the poems are based on life experiences. Anthony believes strongly in the power of story. Names, titles, labels aren’t representative of people. Stories are. Stories illuminate common ground, build community, unravel complexities, unveil truth, and more. His poetry is from a black man’s perspective, but extends far beyond. In his opinion, poetry is a powerful medium that can transform worlds within a handful of words.