Mourning
It
is a lonely house
Here
in a rural lane’s end
Where
the untended
Weeds
and honeysuckle
Almost
obscure the
The
kitchen’s
First
floor window.
Mama
spends
A
lot of time
Peeking
through
The
vegetation
To
see if we have a guest.
We
rarely do.
So
she jumped
With
more than joy
When
she saw
A
tall male figure
Strolling
toward
The
front porch.
Time Passes, Listen . . . Time Passes
At
some now-lost moment
Max
fell in love with her.
Maybe
on their sixth grade
school
trip to Maine.
Nothing
came of his
childhood
crush save
a
melancholy friendship.
He
joined her little crowd
who
sat in circles smoking
the
soft grass of the day
and
listening to the hard music:
Walkin’
the dog
Love
me two times babe
Bald
headed Lena
Sweet
Lorraine.
Resting
on her luxurious
basement
rug, trading roaches,
laughing
and coughing.
Time
passes,
and
a few years later,
while
Max studied hard
in
high school,
she
made her life
almost
a caricature
of
a hippie escapade.
Married
a dealer
had
his child,
travelled
the world
with
canvas back packs,
and
the baby girl.
Smoked
hash
in
Amsterdam,
hung
out with
Sherpas
on the
border
of Tibet
got
bored with the Buddha
trudged
back to the States.
Andy
(the dealer) hustled
away
from his child and
her
mother. The deserted
moved
to San Francisco
where
she met Michael,
a
couple of steps more
criminal
than Andy,
passed
off bad checks
bombed
a building
ended
up in a row boat
on
a California lake
where
he shot himself.
In the Earliest of Days
In
the earliest of days,
our
house was a sort of salon
where
artists leaned from almost
comfortable
bright butterfly chairs
framed
by wrought iron tubes
to
flick their cigarettes
into
full ashtrays on the long,
low
living-room table, talking
politics
more than painting.
“It’s
going to be Kennedy,”
said
Jim Cavanaugh, who was
quite
the fine painter indeed
as
well as a bit of a show-off:
upside
down on the couch cushion,
hanging
his legs over its back,
and
blowing smoke straight up to
the
high ceiling,
a
glass of wine breathing
on
his chest, curly black hair
sneaking
over the collar
of
his white shirt.
“I
would not bet on it,”
said
American history prof
Ethan
Seidman, who had
the
credentials. But was
a
little pursy and clipped
neither
his ears nor nose,
never
mind his luxurious,
sallow
eyebrows.
“Well,”
said Jim,
who,
not wanting to lose
his
audience, shifted
to
lazy smoke rings, which
drifted
around the room. “I know
It’s
close. But Nixon has a little
imp
inside him. Smart guy.”
“Oh,”
countered art teacher,
slim,
pretty Marimekkoed
Rita
Santangelo, turquoise-beaded
necklace
swinging.
“But
Jack’s so handsome.”
“That’s
for sure,” agreed
my
mother from the kitchen.
“And
so we hear from the distaff side,”
chuckled
abundantly bearded
Robert
Walsh, who might have
been
mistaken for a rabbi were
it
not for the clerical collar.
“Haven’t
you heard?”
said
Jim, seating himself
right-side
up, “They
have
the vote now.”
Alec Solomita is a writer and artist working
in the Boston (USA) area. His fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, and Peacock, among
other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword
Journal. His poetry has appeared in Poetica, Lothlorien Poetry
Journal, Litbreak, Driftwood Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Galway Review, The
Lake, and elsewhere, including several anthologies. His photographs and
drawings can be found in Convivium, Fatal Flaw, Young
Ravens Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, and other publications. He
took the cover photo and designed the cover of his poetry chapbook, “Do Not
Forsake Me,” which was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book “Hard To
Be a Hero,” came out last spring.
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