“A House in New Hampshire” (2023)
Albert John Belmont
Oil on Canvas
Am I serene like the moon
or just severe?
Does my couch, a cozy lamp,
make up for this thin atmosphere
where juicy satisfaction must be wrested
from bills paid on time?
Bleak and beautiful,
TV without advertisement
But now can my shivering heart safely
be reheated like last night’s soup?
Can these dry hands
be made supple enough
to touch your face?
Spring weather comes and goes
like bad wi-fi—
De-flowered pear trees fade fast,
already wearing dowdy, middle-aged green
The maples, oblivious,
dangle their fringy red junk in the wind
Only the old oaks act with decorum
awaiting ample proof of
temperate days
Meanwhile, dumb daffodils—
naïve but somehow never scathed—
grin and wave at the cold blue sky
I get quieter all the time
here in the desert,
ears pricked for predators
who also get quieter all the time.
I may retreat underground
or move with the herd
to follow dying grasses,
sipping from dwindling waterholes,
now only puddles.
It’s a gig economy here,
there’s no more rolling in the mud.
I stand still in paltry shade,
delicate ears twitching,
in search of the narrator’s knowing voice.
Nearby, hyenas munch bones,
the last of the leftovers.
Perhaps I will die soon,
panting under my own hunger,
eyes burning, scanning the unkempt expanse.
Then, a blessed rumble of thunder
and you appear in the doorway.
Becky Aijala: Well, I have one previously published poem (from 1987!), a closetful of journals, and several feature articles published in Currents magazine. A long-time member of CWC’s Huntersville poetry critique group, my aim is to become both a better writer and a better reader. In my poems, I often find myself wondering how, in a world of billions, so many people feel separated or lonely, and try to honor that reality—as well as the miraculous connections that happen now and again. I have been a massage therapist for 22 years, and live in Davidson with my cat, Andi.