Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty-year writer and the author of 11 published books of fiction and poetry and 3 stage plays. Her play ‘The Crooked Heart” concerning artist Jackson Pollock premiered on October 25, 2022, at the Irish Repertory Theatre in NYC. Another play, LADY IN A POST BOX, co-written with poet and writer Ciaran O’Driscoll is moving toward production. Tepper’s new Novel satire titled ‘Office’ has been released by Wilderness House Press. Another novel ‘Hair of a Fallen Angel’ will be released in the winter. http://www.susantepper.com
Meditations on dear Petrov
Set in 19th-century Russia during a time of war
DIVINE LOVE
Those crushing sounds as snow piles high against the house. Past the windows ‘til the north wall shudders. Desolation filters in. A hidden fissure. Filth and shadows occupy my dreams. If you came to me now, dear Petrov, I couldn’t crack open the door. But you know to stay put with your regiment. Imagine. How we might speak of divine love. Drinking our whisky close to the fire. My head resting on your knee. Prayers of silence while you bluster filling your glass. Most of the chairs have been burned for heat. Will the north wall bend in or stand another season. Scraping cinders from the cold grate I darkened my brows growing white. Will you take notice. Or tend to me as the girl I once was.
FLAME
One small blow on the flame then plunged into darkness. How I savor my candles. Burned down to stumps. Kept in a line on the crooked shelf of my kitchen. Soldiers, each; their time marked by an invisible source. Softly I count their hours or minutes. Candle by candle. Yet you taunt me, dear Petrov. All in jest, of course. Yet I don’t see a fresh candle poking out from your uniform pocket. You eat the meal I cooked and question the room again. Why just one mere candle glowing. At a loss I finally say: There is the firelight, too. You shrug. Shoulders heavy from war. I keep still. No wish to disturb. An unease lingers. Sounds of cutlery hitting plates. Soon you’ll be off again. With certainty. As the wax melts. Come morning I will rise early and brush war from your jacket.
The Galway Review 