i. Alleluya
She sang
Alleluya for my mother
Alleluya for her husband
Alleluya for my father
Alleluya for his wife
ii. Songs for an audience of one
She sits as close to the sun as she can pull herself
in her Vaillancourt patio chair
an orange beach bucket beside her feet
Allah opp, motherfuckers, she yells
and then she laughs
and then she sings
in a sterling voice:
I am a girl disguised as kindness
between the camera and the water
my heart beats greedy raindrop beats
you see me but cannot see me,
it ain’t that easy.
You never could, mama
You never could, papa
You gone now, to each other
All gone now, I suspect,
but you can’t see me at all just yet
you can’t see me at all just yet.
She sees me in my fold-up lawn chair
fourteen-ninety-five on sale from Sears
three summers ago
with a can of Fresca in my good hand
untethered headphones in the other,
my naked legs a cry for help
and she waves at me, and smiles anyway,
drops her hand into the orange beach bucket beside her feet
Allah opp, motherfucker, she yells
and then laughs
One more for my audience of one
and in a sterling voice, she sings:
I am the mother of the children
who never knew me
who dream of unfading skin, glowing
unpaved roads that lead me
here to where they will never see me,
we all bleed the same without knowing it
and she drops her hand into the orange beach bucket beside her feet
and she is silent for a while
alone on her 12th story balcony
and I wave to her, tentatively
from the 12th story balcony
from a separate building
but she does not wave back
and it all feels hollow
except for her.
iii. Nightjar
We see each other from our distant places
above the spaces of plague and dissidence
almost every day or every other day she is there
just there
whenever she chooses and she sits
in her expensive coiled chair
and I lean back into my sagging lawn chair
and she sings and she chants and sometimes there is no rhyme
but there is a steady beat in her voice, strong enough
to open other tenants’ windows.
I am her only real audience, I think.
I cannot clearly see her face
I can feel the smile she sends me sad and disquiet
and I listen, never speak, because that is how she prefers it.
She wears a colorful modest skirt and blouse each time
and now I wear my best slacks, freshly pressed and laundered
every night
for her,
and a button-up shirt
and I brush my hair
and wear proper shoes and I sit and wait for her to show
and sometimes she comes out
and sometimes she does not
she is like a rare nightjar
and sometimes we both sit in our respective chairs
and say nothing
and sometimes she leaves without singing
and I sit a while longer
until the cold air brings me back inside.
This is lovely. I read it twice and paused to think. I feel the isolation coming through.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much for reading.
LikeLike
Wow! that’s beautiful, Steven.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much, Sheila. I hope you’re doing well.
LikeLike
So easy to picture this scene, Steven. It has a vibrancy beneath the isolation. Vivid characters and mood, as always. Beautiful writing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Diana. 😉
LikeLike
This is ‘gaaaareet’!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hey, thanks for reading!
LikeLike
This takes social distancing to a new level. Easy to picture the scenario.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Mary. And thank you for reading. 🙂
LikeLike
Great to read you again, Steven! I hope you are well.
I am the mother of the children who never knew me…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Basilike, So nice to read you again. Your writing is beautiful as always.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! It felt good to post something again.
LikeLiked by 1 person
And always a pleasure to read.
LikeLike
A very good take on social isolation…superb writing as always, Steven!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Rita. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I really like your beautiful blog. A pleasure to come stroll on your pages. A great discovery and a very interesting blog. I will come back to visit you. Do not hesitate to visit my universe. See you soon.
LikeLike
Wow. All I can say is…wow. Such a talent you are. 🥰
LikeLike