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The Old Neighborhood by William Doreski Peering through the lazy blinds of my family home now sold to pay for Mother’s nursing care I glimpse black lacquered tables, posters from Russia and Poland spilling aggressive primal hues, and a black leather couch as long as the living room. On the floor, a corpse. No, it moves a hand, it waves, it’s drowning in itself. Did I frighten it by bracing my old-fashioned face to the glass? Did I shock and topple it from the couch where maybe it dozed with a clear and living conscience? I rush around through the back yard where I sledded away dull winters and bored myself with gardening through the dustiest weeks of summer. A scream ghosts up the chimney and corkscrews into the icy blue. Only a dog could have heard it. I totter to the corner and nod at the Episcopal church. The cross atop the steeple winks to mock my nonbelief. I turn and see the corpse-person on the verandah still waving at me. The house crouches like a bullfrog. I duck inside the church to hide myself among the hymnals. I could play the tremendous organ and snuff in its mercies; but all that brass rebukes me, so I crawl in a pew and lie so flat the divine breath passes over me in whispers pale against the vaulted nave. |
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