Tower Window

after eleven a.m. by Edward Hopper

They say it makes sense. They tell you it does.

Last night the anchor said everything was fine.

But it’s hard to believe that from where you are

seated at your high castle window

where maybe the prince will see you.

(but is your hair long enough?)


Who placed you here, and how long ago?

This is no story, so there is no villain

so who then will release you?

(Heroes are useless in cities.)


This is not a story, not at all, so no one

wants to hear about your broken heart;

your poison apple, your deep sleep,

not Jon at the newsstand, not Mike and Billy

riding bicycles, not Emily holding an outside table,

not any of the hundreds who will pass beneath

your watch on their lunch hour.


They don’t want to hear that your clothes remind you

too much of the world, and only your shoes

keep you from vanishing. They don’t want to know.

This is not a story. They don’t want to know,

This is not a story they want to know.

This is a story: Everything is fine.

This is the story they want to know:

Everyone, everywhere, fine.


                        
                                  -Brent Allard

Homestead

*


He doesn’t trust her.

She doesn’t know why.

She just wonders, why did I settle for

this almost house on the plains,

miles from anyone who’d notice

the way my smile glows.



He doesn’t say much.

He smolders efficiently.

He looks at his boys and thinks,

for them I can keep this going.



She storms away from accusation,

plans for the second time to escape

a nothing town. She wants to be

something better, a phoenix

born of pigeons.



He walks in his sleep,

kisses his boys goodnight.

hoping that one love is enough.



He tries to find a solid piece of flame

But he’s an invisible man

and she shines so brightly,

he can see through his own skin.



The boys shake their rattles,

eat paste-like food from jars.

They cry when they’re hungry

when it’s not enough

the invisible man disappears,

and the woman of the pigeons learns

that a phoenix is born of ashes.



-Brent Allard

Noir Sestina

*


Noir Sestina






The smoke from her cigarette followed her curves

and I didn’t blame it. But a dame like that is always

almost more trouble than she’s worth. She spoke in whispers

to see if I’d lean in closer. Then cue the waterworks.

Sure, she’s hiding something, or she wouldn’t be here.

She’d be talking to the cops. Just take the check.



A man who doesn’t notice her should be checked

for a pulse. Quite a story, but full of detours. She curves

around the truth like it was a tree in the road. Here,

take my handkerchief. Stop the sobbing. “Always

assume the worst.” I tell her. “That way if nothing works

You won’t be disappointed.” There are whispers



in the street about her and Robbie Chambers. Whispers

that she not only knows what happened, but gets a check

out of it. Lot of money, enough for fur coats, cars, the works.

But something went wrong. Somebody threw a curve

when they were supposed to throw a fastball. They always

do. That’s why the cops can’t help. That’s why I’m here.



I call her on it. I say don’t start the crying, I’ve had it up to here

with the grieving widow bit. That’s when she whispers

an offer we haven’t discussed, then says “Stay with me, always

I don’t know why, but I trust you.” Problem is, I’ve never had to check

my pulse, it doesn’t go much faster. Next thing I know the curve

of her back is wrapped up in my sheets, I’m thinking, this won’t work.



Her story’s still got more holes in it than her husband did. Work

it out, what happened? Maybe Chambers can tell me, since I’m here

already and his main thug just shortened the learning curve

by walking into several bullets. Chambers denies, whispers

“Please. please believe me. She can have the check

I just wanted my cut.” Maybe so, but Chambers was always



clumsy, until he tripped into an elevator shaft. It’s always

something though, isn’t it? That’s why I’m careful. After all, work

stops coming in if you’re wearing a toe tag. She’s got the check.

cashed, and a gun pointed at the glass in my door. She’s here

alright, the money’s with her. Her perfume in the stairway still whispers

the way she came in. My hand cups the curve



of the doorknob and it turns like it always does. I know exactly why I’m here.

I pull the trigger, and of course it works. “Stay with me…,” she whispers

and she’s gone. I don’t need to check. What a damn waste of those curves.