by Major Jackson

Five gold wash crystal pearls on a wrist.
Her seraph–skin glistening when a spigot is turned off
in the apartment next door, letting out
a rusty squeak. A tabby licks a paw.

An evening dinner of lightning in clouds, the sky’s release
of electrical surplus followed by Porchetta
with wilted greens tossed in Arbequina olive oil and lemon.

Layers of clothes topped by her sinamay straw derby hat.
A thin wisp of sheen above his brow.
Until all at once they voicelessly consume
the echoes of all their past.

Possible objects of high regard: stalactites dripping
in a cave, delicately carved tortoiseshell comb,
cambers of her body.

by G. H. Smith

What was it, muse, you
so desperately wanted me to say?
You tried everything to no avail.
Even now steeped in well–earned
self pity, I remain
deaf as a black hole.

The answer must lie
in the past some small detail
so insignificant that
it got overlooked.

For both our sakes,
I wish I knew
how to please you
and thus be relieved
of my responsibilities.

What good can come
from heaping further abuse?
Send me love, youth,
The temptation of unattainable dreams.
I promise to be eloquent.

by G. H. Smith

The time has come to put away childish things.
You laugh, but when were we ever punctual?
Look, the ferry is engaged
in foreplay with the dock.
In light of all this rain,
the past is bankrupt,

which might be a plus.
I try to see myself in a room
surrounded by sticks of furniture.
That one’s a far cry
from Louis Quatorze;
the ottoman has lost its empire.

I miss above all the dogs,
whose antics drove me to distraction,
the way they’d stub their snouts
against the door, demanding to be let out,
then mere minutes later,
wanting in again.

by Kevin Sweeney

I blame myself. My overwrought wise–guy persona
can’t resist a good joke, so when a new family buys
the big house on Broadway (supposedly haunted)
I notice that the wife /mother looks like the girl who
killed ex–NFL QB Steve McNair. Not as young
or glamorous but surely not as unstable; her two
pre–teen boys look like her with dark hair and eyes.
The father is tall and graying but fit and happy.

So I start referring to them as “The McNairs” when I
see the boys walk their small dog to the beach or the
parents set camping chairs on the sand, enjoying the
short span of Maine summer. Work is being done
on the house. Plants hang on the porch. It’s the kind of
house I’d once aspired to before a bad first marriage
then a good second with someone who understands loss.

But this year I see Mr. McNair at the beach with another
woman. I see him out walking, and it’s a different other
woman. That day in town he can’t get his Saab started
I walk over with jumper cables, mention I used to own
Saabs too. The woman in the passenger seat is pretty.
I want to ask, “What’s going on? Where’s your wife?
What about the kids?” The boys seem like teenagers

in that acoustic, minor chord way of melancholy and rue.
I see one reach the crest of a hill near their home with
his father. Both look stricken. I want to pull over and
offer something. A ride? Assurance she’ll be back?
The kids can still see her despite the divorce. I’ve
been through that; it can be okay. Unless she’s dead,

which is why Mr. McNair looks sad too. It’s my fault.
I shouldn’t make jokes. Then last week I drive by the
house and Mr. McNair is smiling, as are both boys.

They’re on the porch facing a dark–haired woman,
a late model car parked at the curb. It looks like her.

On the way home I see the porch is empty and the
dark–haired woman gone. Maybe reconciliation is
in progress? Maybe she’s getting a Ph.D. in something
esoteric and will be home soon. But next day
Mr. McNair and another other woman (is this the 4th?)
sit on the porch in Adirondacks. I’m wounded and
bereft. I thought Mom was coming home. The torn
garment mended. Kevin Sweeney, wiseass cynic &
self–styled suburban satirist off the hook, but Dad’s
laughing with a stranger in the middle of a beautiful day.
What the fuck; doesn’t this guy ever work?