Elaine Reardon is a writer, educator, and artist who lives in rural Massachusetts now.  Her first chapbook, The Heart is a Nursery For Hope, won first honors from Flutter Press in 2016. Her second chapbook, Look Behind You, was published by Flutter Press in 2019. Finishing Line Press is publishing her third chapbook this coming autumn.. www.elainereardon.wordpress.com.

The Escape Artist

When he left
his music welled up
all the way back to when he
was a little southern boy
singing Hank Williams
and Elvis next to the jukebox,
all shining face, skinniness,
and attitude.

There was a prayer service,
nondenominational, filled with
altar boys, Buddhists, and Spiritualists,
people who astrally projected
and move items with their minds.
It was a diverse crowd.

His lovers came,
even those he scammed,
the one whose car he borrowed
when he dated someone else.
Another who bought him a Martin guitar,
and the last one he married down in Austin.
They didn’t talk to each other,
they all just wept.

There were old guitar picks
and music chords, all the way from
Hound Dog to Green Pastures.
There were a few old empty bottles of
vodka and prescription bottles
hidden here and there.

Last, there was an old cigar box of young
boy sweetness, pluck, and nine-lives attitude.
Laughter escaped and mingled
with strums of his mother’s old ukulele
when the box opened. That was
the sound of Goodbye.

Jack Said

I just moved down from
Nova Scotia. I’m a boat builder
with a just-ended marrriage.
His hair was midnight, his voice
was a wailing horn section
way past midnight. He hummed
a tune—Sweet dreams are made of—
invited his new neighbor in.

So began dawn meditations, long
hikes, afternoons reading Rilke
Carl Jung, and writing poetry, a search
for self amid shadows and mixed drinks.
Later, she put the blame on Carl Jung.
Too much shadow, not enough sun.

Jack’s loving whispers crumbled into slurred
words and snores. Their last night he whispered
let’s end the shadows and sadness. We’ll
go to the river that runs all the way to the sea,
jump off the bridge together, you and me.

In that moment some part of her worked free.

What She Saved

It is said when they opened her
first they found a snowstorm
from December 14, 1948,
when she married John in the Sacred
Heart Church. There was the feather
from her hat, a high-heeled pump,
an old corsage and menu
from the New York honeymoon.
Further down there were bits of flannel,
lace, a small sewing machine that
whirred, making new clothes
from someone’s bigger ones,
stitching nightgowns cut from worn
sheets, tiny shirts from bigger ones.
There were worn walking shoes,
a small baby carriage that held
two of us when the walk was too long.
There were squares of fudge that sold
for two cents at the bakery we passed,
tattered recipes, oatmeal, walnuts,
fresh squeezed oranges, and flour set
on a kitchen table, and our old stove heating up.
There was a radio on, Count Basie playing
or Tony Bennett crooning from the top of the refrigerator.
Last, there were lilacs that grew at the front door, and
Persian roses her husband grew for her in the front garden.

Primavera Forest / Bosque La Primavera

This forest holds my heart
Este bosque sostiene mi corazón

Rio Caliente shimmers below us
a waterfall tumble with clouds of heat

we climb and and scramble carefully
over rocks as we cross the heated mist

sharp scent of pine and mesquite crackle
under our feet as sun warms the hillside

below us the convent is tucked into a curve
of river where women come to heal

they are washed by the river
it arrives in their innermost places

as the nun muy vieja offers
vegetables herbs and prayers

The nun will look into your eyes
weighing your chances and her resources

Este bosque sostiene mi corazón
This river flows through my heart

* Muy Vieja – very old
*Rio Caliente – Hot River

And the Roses

Like ladies at a garden party
day lilies lean, slightly tipsy, by steps
leading into a pebbled courtyard.

Sprays of scarlet roses droop
and invite my nose to press in.
I inhale—the bees have nothing on me.

Scent of summer fills the air,
each bloom intoxicating.
Warm air is suffused with perfume.

Bees burrow in like lovers
then back out, dazed and weaving,
drunk on golden nectar.

Stand at the threshold
with antlers fern and rose.

Listen for the sound of bells.
Know then —my kin are close.