—Jacklyn M. Marderosian
Voices of old friends that have become family
dance on this summer’s, mid-July, early night breeze.
Their warmth on its coolness, rifting through open doors
& windows. The almond tree gave up to the squirrels
months ago, the tomatoes are previewing a few
small, yellow flowers, we have had sixteen green
beans and three zucchini squash, plants still
in their temporary pots waiting for home ground.
Like us, renters in this house, each of us in our
rooms trying to grow a home. I can smell mint
and basil just watered on the front porch.
From the window I see them get up; she kisses
him good-by, they hug, and she walks out the back
gate and he walks down to the basement where soft
piano notes filter through the kitchen windows
competing with the neighbors voices across the slow
street, living their lives fully, families in full voices,
over the burnt beans, lost dog, broken down Ford truck,
how much it was to fix Rolando’s broken tooth.
In this dark house the night is comfortable and death
has become easy to think about. How hard it is to feel
the losing of nights like this, comfortable, cooling
within the scents of mint, basil and home,
in the basement, the night music playing softly.