Blue Bonnet Review

A Literary Journal Featuring Poetry, Fiction and Nonfiction by Talented Writers Around the Globe

A literary journal featuring poetry, fiction and nonfiction by writers around the globe. 


Obviously, there are divergences,
same as the ones we nursed when we started out

in that town of low-ceilinged apartment homes,

where the train’s acrimonious, self-important call,

incongruous with the summer breeze,

jolted us through the open windows

long after our threshold was in shadows

and had trembled to announce the arrival

of our downstairs neighbor,

a day laborer and a masterful guitarist.

Those nights,

with your body resolutely turned away from me,

I waited for the front door to shiver in its frame,

for the man below us to pluck the strings of his guitar,

sing a song I did not understand

but knew to be sad, a melody

with the rhythm of
lyrical sobs.
It always started with a formulaic outburst -

throwing your dinner across the table and

stomping off, out the door,

down the stairs, leaving the ramshackle kitchen

in a frenzied seizure. Hours later,

engulfed by the silence of civility or a truce,

I would dissolve in the seams of a stranger’s music.

How did we survive so much discontent
and bring it here with us to this new

well-insulated house?

Latent, yet its flames crackle and lick

at our heels as we, out of habit,

still unravel in low voices, wheeze out accusations

with our rage-heavy, steel-cold, bone-tired breaths.

New strangers in this neighborhood, too -

little girls playing with their dog,

their mother calling from a window,

someone working with tools in their garage,

the steady drone of a machine intruding

on the radio song blaring in a balcony.

Our fights bring that old lonesome

taste to my tongue,

but no one sings their despair here

or plays it on the guitar,

we only have the consolation of space -

in the kitchen, I drop a skillet, a colander,

some silverware into the sink like loose change,

kick the cherry-wood cabinets, scrape my nails

across burnt pasta sauce in the cradle of a pot,

out of sight, you watch a mob drama,

and I let the water run to drown out all sound.

Obviously, there are divergences,
naked as loud noises, honest as healing wounds -

we claw through them

with more rancor each time,

but for the most part, we, being in motion,

stay in motion.