Josephine Peterson
It all started
with a Corningware casserole dish
that slipped from my hands and broke,
so Bill went out to buy a new one
at the hardware store.
It was the day before Thanksgiving
and we needed all the pans we had.
All the cousins came that year
and Charlie had a broken leg.
Soon Bill was full of projects,
though he’d hardly lifted a finger before.
There were new tiles around the fireplace,
new fixtures for the sinks,
and wallpaper samples he could never decide on.
When spring came, he could hardly contain himself.
Time to paint the whole house
and repave the driveway.
All the tools it took to smooth out that concrete—
and still I had no suspicions.
Would you believe I got an anonymous letter
like in some old movie:
Go and see why your husband
spends so much time at the hardware store.
The reason was Linda in housewares.
How could I understand or begin to handle
this situation? The only person
I could have turned to was my mother
and she had never liked Bill.
I hoped it was just a passing fancy,
that nothing had happened yet.
When the first leaves turned that autumn
he disappeared.
My lawyer tracked him down.
All I ever saw of him after that
was his name at the bottom of a check.
.
Ed Kiskee
Why should I ever forgive her,
my whore of a wife
for carrying on with Bill Peterson
right under my nose,
in front of all my employees,
to make the humiliation complete.
That night I followed them to the motel
she wore a yellow dress with spaghetti straps—
never mind the cool weather,
she had to show off her body
like she always did, but not at the store—
I wouldn’t allow it.
Imagine the mother of my children
putting herself on display
like a cheap slut. I should’ve seen it coming—
she makes eyes at a younger guy,
he asks for more.
I watched her eagerly waiting
at the motel room door
while he got the key,
then I grabbed her
and pulled her to the car crying,
her high-heeled sandals
scraping the blacktop. I thought
I had put some sense into her that night,
but they ran off together the next day.
When she didn’t come back
I told the kids she was dead.
After a couple years
they didn’t ask about her anymore.
.
Edie Hallister
When death finally came
my husband was just a shadow of himself.
Alzheimer’s had emptied him
of all that he was.
Our children merged
with long-gone siblings and cousins,
his mind populated with ghosts.
He remembered me the longest
but at some point replaced me
with the painting.
It was there in the living room—
me in that green dress
on the day I told him I was pregnant.
I loved that painting.
He still kept up his art,
but when he got worse
he did these self-portraits
all splintered in pieces
and his face was flat, angry.
The very last one was just jagged forms
protruding from darkness
with an eye leering in the center.
By then he was totally mute,
gloomy. He wasn’t Evan anymore.
After he passed, his gallerist
removed all those signs of his demise.
God, was I glad to get them off my hands!
.
Evan Hallister
sun glinted off the water
sharp shards of light
diving into another world
another way of being
arms and legs slicing through
I won the race
that’s why she married me
she wouldn’t say so
but I won her heart that day for sure
mother didn’t like her
that didn’t stop me
in my painting she wore a green dress
and her sly smile
the lilac bush wasn’t quite right
no one can see these things but me
the children always painted trees
big round leaves
people with arms outstretched
something in that art
no other art can do
my art
I broke apart there too
the broken edges of me
slipping forward and reaching back
it is not the missing
words
the impossible
faces
but my awareness
shattering
the partial
view
the
incomplete
.
Kate Deimling is working on a series of poems called “Shades” about the dead residents of a fictional town. Her poetry has appeared in Slant, Tar River Poetry, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Plainsongs, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn and is associate poetry editor for Bracken magazine. Find her online at www.katedeimling.com.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 