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.