Love Story
Look at her smile, he says,
clicking one at a time
through his phone’s photos.
Here she is at fifteen,
five years after he met her,
blonde, blue-eyed,
wide smile dimpling her cheeks.
Here she is at seventeen
in her graduation robe,
at their wedding,
in the garden of the
Spanish-style home
his grandmother helped finance.
Here she is later in her mid-thirties,
smiling with rapture
at their baby daughter,
the only one who made it
after six miscarriages.
Newly-qualified for Medicare,
she lies, in a coma,
after many years of a two-pack habit
and nightly descents into a bottle,
liquor provided by him
despite her three stints in rehab.
She makes me buy it,
he confesses, unable to hide his shame.
Still, people loved – love – her,
we who can reach
into the past to remember
her vibrant spirit,
that feistiness,
the kind heart.
The doctor says there’s no way yet
to know how much of her remains.
No Harm, No Foul
He floats through
his teens, twenties, thirties
gravitating toward
start-up companies
that never quite pay.
Living simply in the
wired-for-electricity shack
behind his parents’ house,
computer screen alive
all day and all night,
he cheerfully takes breaks
to do odd jobs
for room and board
convinced that around
the next corner he’ll find
that perfect job, girl, car.
His ship will come in.
He plans the ways
he will share:
purchase a mansion
for his folks, donate
generously to the homeless,
contribute to the arts.
Reverie
We walk, sometimes hand-in-hand
enjoying our weekend away from work,
pets, mundane life – three days of bliss
which we can fill with nothing much –
a purchase of earrings, lunch at a bistro,
a glass of wine on the balcony of our B & B.
On the first day we explore the six blocks
that make up the heart of this small town
noting the small post office, realty windows
that boast of homes selling for four times
what they’d be worth where we live,
a tiny veterinary office, a hardware store.
Planter boxes with lavender, gray, and white sage
line the streets, some hanging, some against walls.
Once we reach the edges of the main street
we climb small hills, gaze at
small, well-maintained homes with
elaborate rose gardens and bird feeders.
We imagine ourselves living in one –
that white one there with the blue trim –
hosting intimate get-togethers
outside in our perfect garden
sun warming our faces, sage filling the air,
the pinks and reds of the garden
vivid against the white wall,
the whir of hummingbird wings
harmonizing with fountain’s trickle.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher and cat-lover, plays bridge, goes to the library every three weeks, and volunteers as a CASA (court advocate for foster children). After receiving her MFA in 2003, she has written and published fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry in such journals as Quercus Review, Cloudbank, The Chariton Review, the new renaissance, and South Loop Review, among others.
Look at her smile, he says,
clicking one at a time
through his phone’s photos.
Here she is at fifteen,
five years after he met her,
blonde, blue-eyed,
wide smile dimpling her cheeks.
Here she is at seventeen
in her graduation robe,
at their wedding,
in the garden of the
Spanish-style home
his grandmother helped finance.
Here she is later in her mid-thirties,
smiling with rapture
at their baby daughter,
the only one who made it
after six miscarriages.
Newly-qualified for Medicare,
she lies, in a coma,
after many years of a two-pack habit
and nightly descents into a bottle,
liquor provided by him
despite her three stints in rehab.
She makes me buy it,
he confesses, unable to hide his shame.
Still, people loved – love – her,
we who can reach
into the past to remember
her vibrant spirit,
that feistiness,
the kind heart.
The doctor says there’s no way yet
to know how much of her remains.
No Harm, No Foul
He floats through
his teens, twenties, thirties
gravitating toward
start-up companies
that never quite pay.
Living simply in the
wired-for-electricity shack
behind his parents’ house,
computer screen alive
all day and all night,
he cheerfully takes breaks
to do odd jobs
for room and board
convinced that around
the next corner he’ll find
that perfect job, girl, car.
His ship will come in.
He plans the ways
he will share:
purchase a mansion
for his folks, donate
generously to the homeless,
contribute to the arts.
Reverie
We walk, sometimes hand-in-hand
enjoying our weekend away from work,
pets, mundane life – three days of bliss
which we can fill with nothing much –
a purchase of earrings, lunch at a bistro,
a glass of wine on the balcony of our B & B.
On the first day we explore the six blocks
that make up the heart of this small town
noting the small post office, realty windows
that boast of homes selling for four times
what they’d be worth where we live,
a tiny veterinary office, a hardware store.
Planter boxes with lavender, gray, and white sage
line the streets, some hanging, some against walls.
Once we reach the edges of the main street
we climb small hills, gaze at
small, well-maintained homes with
elaborate rose gardens and bird feeders.
We imagine ourselves living in one –
that white one there with the blue trim –
hosting intimate get-togethers
outside in our perfect garden
sun warming our faces, sage filling the air,
the pinks and reds of the garden
vivid against the white wall,
the whir of hummingbird wings
harmonizing with fountain’s trickle.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher and cat-lover, plays bridge, goes to the library every three weeks, and volunteers as a CASA (court advocate for foster children). After receiving her MFA in 2003, she has written and published fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry in such journals as Quercus Review, Cloudbank, The Chariton Review, the new renaissance, and South Loop Review, among others.