 Peg Bresnahan’s second poetry collection, In a Country None of Us Called Home, was published by Press 53. Peg is a member of the North Carolina Writers’ Network. She received her MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpeliar. Her work has been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies.
Kathy Smith Bowers, former Poet Laureate of North Carolina said of Peg’s latest book, "This is one of the most beautifully crafted and moving collections I have read in a long time."
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At the Jordan Street Cafe'
know who asked her but suddenly
this woman standing at the restaurant door
about ready to leave in raincoat and boots
was singing Puccini's "Vissi D'arte" from Tosca.
Someone turned off the CD player
and we all listened as Tosca's torment
for her dead lover took flight. Questions
to the God she felt had left her, soared
over tables and bar stools, cruised down a hall
to the kitchen where even the chef paused.
It didn't matter we couldn't speak Italian,
each heart knew its own breaking,
every face translated its grief.
The aria froze us like a tableau—forks
in midair, a waiter with full tray held high,
the bartender in front of the mirrored wall
of bottles and glass about to pour a draft.
Everyone heard her music.
Some from cages. Some winged.
Some tethered to a fire, to ropes of ash.
At the Sunny Ridge Retirement Center
During Harriet's memorial service,
Frances leaned, put her head
on my shoulder and died—quietly
as if she didn't want to interrupt
Harriet's program.
The minister didn't see us,
no one knew except me. At the piano,
Mary played the introduction
to Going Home. Everyone thumbed
their hymnals for page two hundred forty-three.
I didn't know what to do, since Frances
still looked like Frances, only not quite
and she was ninety-five. I put my arm
around her so she wouldn't fall
and waited for someone to notice.
Through the French doors
finches squabbled at the bird feeder.
The squirrel we call Rocky
contemplated his next move.
A laundry truck rolled by.
I looked down at Frances' navy blue crocs,
the ones she claimed felt so much
like bedroom slippers
she could wear them anywhere.
Slipstream
because of your heart attack.
I grabbed the sheet of air between us
and gave it a good shake
to make a commotion
jump-starting the no that roared from my throat,
poured off the walls of our house.
Today I can't seem to finish anything,
my trail littered with little piles of intentions.
I could blame it on what I dreamed last night—
you know how in a dream
you need to talk to someone
and that person's always out of reach,
just leaving? If you do go before me
I will give away your empty shoes,
walk the dogs until we're all exhausted,
buy half a bag of groceries.
But for now I lie beside you, listen
to you breathe each breath, hitchhike
a ride with them into our future.
You can order Peg's book from Press 53.
http://www.press53.com/bioPegBresnahan.html
Poet Peg Bresnahan is new to me, but after reading these three poems, I am celebrating her worthy accomplishment. Yes, I want more. She is that good!
ReplyDeleteNancy, Peg and her husband came to Coffee with the Poets last year and she read for us. I have Peg's book mentioned above. Perhaps I could loan it to you and you might write a review for Peg.
ReplyDeleteI, too, love her poetry.