Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 3
The house is empty of sound
except for the chirps of small birds,
the rattle of Sunday papers.
Morning sun filters through maple trees,
the patterns of solitude play out
on carpets, on leather chairs,
on a cat sprawled in the largest patch
of sun available. The quiet
is tangible; Ellen reads the paper.
Springsteen’s saxophonist has died,
she says, he was sixty-nine, he
had a stroke.
Anna has left for the Vineyard,
Noam in tow, his wild energy sucked
from the house as though
a tornado has come and gone. My
son would be 50 years old,
had he survived his cancer,
but I remember he was wild too,
he was life itself until
he was no more.
The Canada geese on Jesuit Pond
no longer migrate, gray goslings
hatch and grow their feathers
protected by the clan. They live
their lives as best they can,
no questions asked, no causes
unearthed, neither shallow nor
© Charles Levenstein