Author

Jon Silvestri

After traveling the far edges of the universe, Jon Silvestri has found home in the mountains of Northern California, where he spends his days chasing beauty and writing poetry.

Tuesday

by Jon Silvestri July 16, 2025

written by Jon Silvestri

She flips my business card through the fingers of her right hand in the same way a poker player spins a $50 chip. Index, middle, ring, then around her pinky for another loop. Not lengthwise, but rather along the narrow side, leaving the length of my card to stick out past her French-manicured nails. It’s uncanny, mesmerizing, and I struggle to pull my eyes away and focus on her face.

It’s not a bad face, as far as faces go. A bit harsh around the eyes and mouth, which is telling, but unsurprising. Many men would call her beautiful, and many have, only to be dashed on the rocks by her siren song. A long trail of male detritus still follows her; washed-up mariners clinging to the bowspit of their wrecked lives. I can see the attraction. It’s a bit like a moth to a flame, which, now that I think of it, begs an important question: Does a moth really know it is headed for certain destruction? Or is it just compelled by its deeper, baser instinct? Either way, this woman is the flame.

My business card stops moving, suspended between her middle and ring finger like a thin slice of nothingness. I look at the card, then into her hazel eyes.

“You want what?” She asks languidly. Or is it harshly? I’m having trouble reading her. Her voice says one thing, but her face another entirely. She pulls my business card from its wedged position with the thumb and index finger of her left hand, turning it slightly to re-read my information. “John Stillman.” It’s a declaration, not a question, as if she chose my name for me.

“I want to interview you,” I repeat, for what seems like the third time.

She laughs–or chuffs, I don’t know–and smiles broadly, leaning against the pillows lining her overstuffed silk chaise lounge. Bright orange fabric, by the way. Not my first choice, but it accents well her slitted cerulean dress and long legs, which she crosses as she reclines, leaving a strip of tanned skin exposed to her mid-thigh.

“Moi?” She protests falsely, placing her long fingers on the rise of her chest. “Little ol’ moi? And why would I do that?”

“Because many people have written about you, but the truth is, if I may speak boldly, no one has ever told your story.”

“You do speak boldly.” Again, that chuff. “You think twenty years of interviews missed the mark? You think my biographer fell short?”

“They asked the wrong question.”

She raises her eyelids, revealing the full white circle of her eyes. “And what is the right question?”

I pause, because how I play this will decide how this story goes. One breath, two. Lean forward, forearms on my thighs. Full eye contact. Open my mouth slightly before I speak.

“Why.”

Her full lips purse, then frown. “Why?’

“Yes. Why.”

“Why what, John? Why this?” She sweeps her hand around the expansive room, her gesture taking in the grand piano, the bookshelves, the statues and priceless vases, and, outside, the manicured gardens.

“No, that’s actually a how. I know how you got all of this.” You stole it from your lovers, used them to climb into their power, and destroyed them, I didn’t say.

She doesn’t skip a beat. “Then perhaps why I chose to successfully–and single-handedly, mind you–pull a backwards country into the twenty-first century.” No agitation, no concern. She’s clearly used to this type of conversation.

“Perhaps,” I say. “But that’s not the story I want to tell. Everyone knows the storyline. You saw your impoverished homeland being manhandled by imperialistic countries and wanted it to have a voice on the world stage. You’ve done that. I want to know your personal why.”

At the corner of the room, framing the ten-foot mahogany doors, two security guards eye me closely, watching her every move for the slightest hint of discomfort.

Her brows scrunch. Not too much Botox, I see. She leans forward in what appears to be thought, focusing on the hand-stitched Persian rug resting directly beneath my slightly scuffed brown oxfords. Too long, though. Two, three seconds? Then suddenly she pulls upright, laughs again, and reaches for a small, hand-carved box on the side table to her right.

“Here.” She places the box in my hands, her long fingers brushing in a hint of contact against mine. “Open it.”

I look closer at the box, inlaid with abalone set between intricately carved patterns, then twist the small latch and lift the lid. It is filled with fingernails. Not clippings. Fingernails.

There are times when playing a lot of poker proves helpful. Not when I’m underwater and still owe $20,000 to some very bad people. It’s not helpful then. But now, as I look into this box of dozens of fingernails, some still caked in dried blood, I’m grateful I know how to hide my emotions. I shut the box and hand it back to her, expressionless.

“Those are my lovers’ index fingernails,” she says, her fingertips circling gently on the abalone inlay. “Do you want to know why I have them?” She pauses, but not long enough for me to answer. “First,” She straightens her back, sets the box back on the tea table, and pushes her blonde hair off her shoulder. “I despise being scratched. I can’t abide it.” She shudders at the thought. Sincerely? Duplicitously?

“But here’s the real reason why.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, pressing her breasts into deep cleavage. “Every other woman that they touch, they will think of me. For the rest of their lives.”

I push back. “So you’ve got a kink. Lots of people have those. That doesn’t answer my question.”

Her eyes smile, and she doesn’t break eye contact. “Yes, I do have preferences,” she replies smoothly. “As do you, I am sure.”

“Of course. We all do.” I feign agreement.

She reaches forward, tracing an index finger around the circle of my kneecap. “Yes, we do.”

I slide her fingers into mine, resting my other hand over them. Her hands are soft, delicate, almost fragile. She’s looking at my fingernails now, her long eyelashes flicking as they hide and reveal her large eyes.

“I’ve been lonely, John.” She says softly. “It’s been a long time, as I am sure you know.”

I don’t let go. “I’ve heard some stories.”

“So you know my why, then.” She places her final hand on mine, and we sit there, hand upon hand upon hand upon hand. I make no sign of consent or dissent. “I need passion to survive. I need beauty to create. I need desire to rule.” She looks closely at me, her eyes softening. “Without love, I am nothing.”

I look back into her eyes and smile a half-smile. “So, tell me the real reason why.”

“What?” She leans back abruptly, pulls her hands from mine, and looks baffled, but one can never be sure. One of the guards takes a step forward from the doorway, but she waves him back, blinks twice, holds her breath for a second, then looks at me once more. “You don’t make sense, John Stillman. You don’t make sense at all.”

“That’s alright.” I stand, brushing my now wrinkled Dockers with the flat of my hands. “I’ve got everything I need.”

July 16, 2025

COLUMNS OUR VOICE

A Poem by Jon Silvestri

by Jon Silvestri June 5, 2025

written by Jon Silvestri

And


Orange and red
Light from the wood stove,
Emerald and chartreuse
Accents of the oak leaves,

and the

Coral and poppy of her skin
Sit like paint on a
Palette of silver fog.

This morning
I could still taste
Her on my lips
And the flavor was
Cobalt with a faint
Hint of cerulean.

And in the afternoon
She shone in glimpses 
Of ivory and cream 
As she strode

Through iridium-shaded
Grass that dripped dewdrops
Of abalone and opal.

But it's evening now, and

She dozes
With her head in my lap,
Her charcoal and
Quicksilver hair soft
Beneath my hands
As she dreams in shades 
Of ruby and iridescence

June 5, 2025

COLUMNS OUR VOICE

A Poem by Jon Silvestri

by Jon Silvestri May 21, 2025

written by Jon Silvestri

Underworld

The coyote yips
And howls
In the dimness
Slipping into the
Impartible spirit
And night

A whisper of dawn
A rooster's crow
Says it's time

The moment
Between night and day
Where the hidden
things live
They call and tell me
To breathe
Deeply then hold 
It's time to dive

To the place

Of the unsaid 
And the nursery of
Thoughts

Deep in the abyss
Where a speck of dust
Shines in the palm
Of a hand

They say daydreams
Are the food of the future
An aperitif of what
Could possibly come

And you dwell in this dream
Like a glint of silver
Among brass
Where the momentary
Shine startles the eye
Enticing a closer look

From the darkness

Comes dawn
Or so they say
But below that
In the underworld
Of the unconscious 

Resurrection lives

And this morning 
I dive deeply
To rise with you

May 21, 2025

COLUMNS OUR VOICE

A Poem by Jon Silvestri

by Jon Silvestri April 16, 2025

written by Jon Silvestri

she walks in beauty

The poet Byron once said
She walks in beauty
Like the night
And yes,
She is like the night

But more so 
like midday
In midsummer
When the light is
So bright it inundates
And overwhelms,
Leaving dogs panting
On the sidewalk
And helpless passerby
Squinting in a desperate
Hope and bliss,
Yearning for her rays
To seep through their pores
And leave them woozy with
Delight.

Yet even more 
A brilliant 
Supernova of white,
Blinding 
With sheerness
When it goes
And comes in a stream
Of pure energy, like
A trumpet and shout
That pulls souls from
The grave.

But you cannot say
She is only 
An explosion of brilliance,
A summer’s afternoon,
Heat and light.

 instead, perhaps
The fading glow of a winter
Sunset, a chill in the air
Warmed by purples,
Pinks and blues
That leaves the soul aching,

Or even the stillness of 
Crickets in the darkness
When the world has 
Silenced, 
And in sleep
She dims and quiets,
Preparing for her sunrise.

April 16, 2025

COLUMNS OUR VOICE

The Statue Still Stands

by Jon Silvestri February 19, 2025

written by Jon Silvestri

The statue still stands in the square. Most of the buildings surrounding it have been bombed out, but the statue remains, pocked by bullets and shrapnel. The immortalized victor still holds his sword high above his head, although the blade is gone and the rearing horse he straddles is missing a foreleg. Some conqueror from some other time, celebrating his brutal victory in some other war than today’s. Slightly in front of him and to the left, where his horse would land should it ever finish rearing, lies a large crater, the result of an off-kilter missile attack three days ago. On the edge of that crater rests a small doll, still connected to both arms and legs, though its head has gone missing. And next to that doll is a girl.

She’s no older than six but looks malnourished, so I could be wrong. Her dress is torn and used to be white, but that was long ago, long before this time. Now, it only has some light gray patches left between brown and black to serve as a reminder of what it once was. Her eyes still glow a brilliant blue, though, blazing in contrast to her dirt-stained skin and filthy brown blonde hair. And those eyes look at me, a combination of hollow and full.

It’s just the two of us. My colleagues are off somewhere busier, and this section of the city has already been looted and emptied of everything except stray dogs and this small girl. I don’t know what brought me here, why I ended up in this abandoned square in a war zone. “Never walk alone,” they say. “Always check your 6.” And yet, here I am, dozens of blocks away from my hotel.

“Family?” I ask. “Parente?”

She doesn’t reply but doesn’t look away, either. Instead, she takes the doll in her hand, then pulls it to her chest. I squat next to her.

“Are you lost?”

She just looks at me, clutching her headless doll and refusing to break eye contact.

I got lost once as a child. I was in a city with my parents and got distracted by something on the sidewalk. When I looked up, they were gone. I ran, screaming and desperately looking for them with tears running down my cheeks. But all I saw were strangers as I spun in circle after circle, my despair and panic growing simultaneously until I collapsed on the curb. The next thing I remembered was feeling my father’s hands lifting me up and placing me against himself while my mother cried and kissed me over and over in anger and love.

So, with that memory in mind, I stand, reach my hands down, and lift the girl, resting her on my hip. I walk the mile or so to the Red Cross shelter, where her parents wait for her, embracing her with glee and delight, for their daughter has returned. I leave with a smile, happy to know she’s safe.

But if I told you that, it would be a lie. That’s the way I recreated the memory, with me as the knight in shining armor swooping in to save the day. And at times, other times, that would have been true, but not now, and not with this story.

Here’s the truth. I did squat next to her, and she did clutch the doll to her chest. I stayed there for I don’t know how long, and she never stopped staring at me and never said a word. No one showed up, and no loving parent appeared. Then I got up and walked out of the square. Five blocks later, I turned around and sprinted back, running in circles like a desperate father searching for a lost child, but by then, she was gone. I had run through gunfire to save people but walked away from an innocent. I cannot tell you why.

I have not been back for decades, so I do not know if the statue still stands. But I still wake from deep sleep to her blue eyes staring at me. Every child in a playground reminds me of her. I see her in my daughter. And I do not have words to describe the emotion I carry with me daily. What good would it do anyway? What could a priest tell me that could change the decision I made? And how can one soothe this guilt? With more lies, like Surely her family found her, or She was just out for a stroll?

And that’s something I’ve never told anyone. You are the first.

February 19, 2025

COLUMNS OUR VOICE

“Dissolve” – A Poem by Jon Silvestri

by Jon Silvestri February 5, 2025

written by Jon Silvestri

Dissolve

I feel my rigidity dissolving
Seventy-one years
of do’s and don’ts
haves and have nots
shoulds and shouldn'ts
all seem to be sliding past
like the spin of the night sky 
shifting from darkness to light

Perhaps it could be called a rebirth
a restart, a reset, but it feels more
like a reconnection
to something lost long ago
like the sudden sweep of memory that
comes with a familiar scent
bringing with it feelings 
of bright, warm home.

These memories return in waves
descrying what was, what seemed
so set, but now is suddenly fluid,
moving and shifting in a panoply of color
and light to a vanishing 
point of abstraction

where something remains, asking me 
what do I hold and what 
do I sift through my fingers?

Color, smell, light, words stick to me, 
warmth and home stay.
but the rest crumbles like ash
at a crematorium 
to be birthed again in the 
smoke of the atmosphere

February 5, 2025