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Natalie H. Rogers WHO KNOWS WHAT AN OLD WOMAN DOES Who knows what an old woman does
After the last saucer is washed and put away
The towel folded The last kiss placed upon the row
Of kisses at the end of her letter.
Who sees the ruptured shards of heart
Subtle splinters from rebuffs unnoticed And anyway Does it really matter?
About an old woman and
Her broken heart so old
That she is past
The Sturm und Drang
Of passion longing and regret.
Hasn’t time dissolved her cravings?
Rendered her desires docile
Left her needy and quiet
Squeezing the air out of her dreams.
This old woman
What is she thinking? Is she sad?
Perhaps she feels irrelevant
Because she doesn’t know
The latest tune the latest buzz.
Perhaps she doesn’t care
And craving comfort
She presents herself
Perfectly tucked
Surrounded by her things and things
Photographs from happy times
Children laughing at the beach
Souvenirs from summers past
The Matzo plate from Israel
The paperweight from Venice
The iron Dragon made in Tokyo
Possessions speaking for themselves
Reminding her of incidents
Too distant to remember clearly
Faded scenes muffled voices Flashing names and places
Fluttering like butterflies in her minds eye
Always slightly out of reach
Faces haunting her dreams
Her friend the actress Irma gone
And her first beau Marshall
And his wife Bea
And her husband Harold
And her sister Beverly
Her Aunt Frances All Passed.
Yesterday she had such a yearning
To pick up the phone
And listen to her mother’s voice
Imagine that her mother
Long gone some forty years
So this old woman sits in the
Window barely breathing
Rocking back and forth
Watching God inhale the light
In a soft puff
The light from the lamp on the piano melts into silence
Frozen drops of time sputter and die
Another moment lost And another and another
For as many breaths
Not so many Breaths remaining
WIDOW My house is still With quiet rooms and doors That never need to close For privacy is everywhere And sounds and sights No longer resonate intrude Or beg for my attention Here in these quiet rooms Where books and papers all remain in place Only light and shadows visit this quiet house Coming and going Day after day Only my keys opening the door My footprints on the rug My hand turning on the light No husband reading late into the night No towels on the bathroom floor No dishes in the sink No child will play the flute Or bring a kitten home Her photos framed and silent Peirce my heart With her audacious beauty Her busy life somewhere else Her own apartment and her own priorities Busy noisy somewhere else My house is still So still So still I hold my breath and listen To this fragile web of silence Connecting me to every souvenir Each painting on the wall I listen for some faint scrap of a sound Some sound Tucked beneath a corner of the rug Forgotten perhaps under a magazine In vain I listen and The quiet mocks me Silence fills the space between my breaths Blooming and swelling Hiding inside the empty vase on the table Nestling between the dust and the shine On the mirrors Clinging quietly to every surface As I cling in rapt attention to the daily shock Of living with the stillness of my house. (Originally posted November 26, 2019) To contact Natalie H. Rogers send an email to natalierogers11@aol.com or visit https://www.talkpowerinc.com/
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