The Switch
BY SANDRA EVANS FALCONER.
A July evening, 25 years ago:
My mother, my aunt and I
washing the last of the dinner dishes
when the bang of the screen door
forces us to turn around.
Steven, drunk for the first time,
stumbles toward the sink,
his eyes puffy and half closed.
He doesn’t know his babbling
is something we’re not a part of.
He tries hard not to stumble
as he lolls against the long counter
like a caught fish.
I see a tightness in my mother's face,
the scene in front of her
unmistakably familiar and clear,
as though someone had suddenly
thrown a switch into a darkened room.
Right then I knew
that no matter what I said,
or what he did, that switch
was on and dangerous.
And there was nothing
I could do to stop it. I couldn’t shut it off.
I’d never be able to shut it off.
Women, The Work, The Difficult Work
BY SANDRA EVANS FALCONER.
(for Liz, Sharon, Alice)
I.
There are three women
in my brother's house.
Two nights ago,
the policemen found him upstairs
on his bedroom floor.
Now where the love seat
is pulled out from the corner
a young woman with soft black hair
is sorting mail, unanswered letters.
Some she keeps
in a small pile on the sofa
the rest she throws away.
Friday night Doug and I came by and rang the doorbell. No
one answered. We kept calling his name through the mail slot
In the same room,
another woman in a crushed velour shirt
rolls up her sleeves
as she packs the Christmas ornaments,
picture frames, tin boxes.
She opens the half drawn shutters
to an afternoon trying hard
to hold off the rain.
He was my friend, he was my best friend
In the red brick kitchen
the woman in a long flowered dress
washes dishes in a mixing bowl.
She cleans the plates Peter hands her
with their dried bits of food,
and empties the little that's left
in the vodka bottles,
each with its missing top
I bought cleansers, sponges, soap powder
The women speak and do not speak
they work as women work
when they know only later on it will be possible
to stop, to sit down, to talk
II.
What is left here?
serving spoons
prints of British seaweed
real latin names written underneath
in the solarium
broken clay pots,
a dry fountain
stairs swept for the last time
cereal bowls on a clean counter
bags of refuse stacked in the kitchen
There are three women
in my brother's house.
In the vestibule
an umbrella, a light tan jacket,
a shopping list still in the pocket
Then women leaving the house,
crossing the empty street,
the last one out locking the door.
I.
There are three women
in my brother's house.
Two nights ago,
the policemen found him upstairs
on his bedroom floor.
Now where the love seat
is pulled out from the corner
a young woman with soft black hair
is sorting mail, unanswered letters.
Some she keeps
in a small pile on the sofa
the rest she throws away.
Friday night Doug and I came by and rang the doorbell. No
one answered. We kept calling his name through the mail slot
In the same room,
another woman in a crushed velour shirt
rolls up her sleeves
as she packs the Christmas ornaments,
picture frames, tin boxes.
She opens the half drawn shutters
to an afternoon trying hard
to hold off the rain.
He was my friend, he was my best friend
In the red brick kitchen
the woman in a long flowered dress
washes dishes in a mixing bowl.
She cleans the plates Peter hands her
with their dried bits of food,
and empties the little that's left
in the vodka bottles,
each with its missing top
I bought cleansers, sponges, soap powder
The women speak and do not speak
they work as women work
when they know only later on it will be possible
to stop, to sit down, to talk
II.
What is left here?
serving spoons
prints of British seaweed
real latin names written underneath
in the solarium
broken clay pots,
a dry fountain
stairs swept for the last time
cereal bowls on a clean counter
bags of refuse stacked in the kitchen
There are three women
in my brother's house.
In the vestibule
an umbrella, a light tan jacket,
a shopping list still in the pocket
Then women leaving the house,
crossing the empty street,
the last one out locking the door.
Sandra Evans Falconer is an award winning writer, author, poet and playwright. She is also a recipient of an Individual Artist Award in Poetry from the Maryland State Arts Council. Sandra is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Absent Sisters and Imagining the World, as well as a full length collection, The Six o'clock Siren. Her work has been adapted to music and to the stage for the 1995 Washington DC Playwrights Conference, and the 2004 Page to Stage Festival at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, DC. Her new book of poems, The Lucky Spot Dance, will be released in March 2020 from Goldfish Press in Seattle, Washington. You can find more of her work at www.sandraevansfalconer.com.