Kalyna Review

Sharon Scholl

About the author


Sharon Scholl  is from Atlantic Beach, Fl, a retired professor, mostly a musician, and, compulsively, a writer.

In Retrospect


I am thinking now of cousins

passed upon the street unrecognized,


aunts I’ve not seen since I was two,

a father who breathes in scribbled


longhand, a nephew whose freckles

are only photographic, my brother’s


voice, a stranger’s on the phone,

a niece who writes of her divorce


to names she assumes would care,

a mother whose distant life reads


like a Martian chronicle, and I am wondering

if blood is thinner than it used to be.

In Transit


See how lightly

he holds me


so I dribble

from one hand


to the other

like fat beads


of mercury.

He doesn’t try


to pick me up

but merely holds


one hand out

to contain


my shattering.

I always return


after the world

has beaten me


to grains

because he


doesn’t expect

to keep me long.

Bonfire of the Vanities


It all boils down

to a urine-scented room

and the blue glow

of Lucy show reruns.


After the million dollar deals,

midnight parties on private yachts

there is the brown turd floating

in the toilet and the night nurse

purring, That’s nice, Mrs. Jones.


After the gossip

that tilted the election

the winner is the upper plate

soaking on the night stand.


After the salon coiffures shining

under chandeliers, there are the gray

remaining wisps left curled

upon the shower floor.


After the diamond pendants,

the anniversary baubles, there is

the glittering horde of pharmacopeia

spread around the sink.


After the trophy lover in the red Jaguar

there is the postcard from an estranged

daughter reading, sorry, too busy to visit.


So it comes down to this

after all, after all.


House Call


Strafed light stirs me to consciousness,

the forced notice of idling engines,

slam of metal doors.


A midnight call at the corner house,

the summons of a mortal crisis: oxygen,

stretcher, the dark bag of elixirs,


green robed medics loping silently

across the lawn, a bank of truck lights

threading signals through their legs.


I am the sleepy neighbor at her window,

the curious eyes behind the curtain,

my dread draped across the darkness.


The victim is unknown to me,

someone void of history or condition

for this sudden taking in the night.


Tomorrow I shall not bother

to question or visit, uncertain

of my welcome or my motive.


It is enough that I am not

the wracked body whose electric call

set the red lights turning on the truck.