Before my mother drank herself to death…..

Happy Birthday, Mr. Poe!
To one of the first, authentically American literary voices. Inspiration, then and now, for artists, writers, creators.
Maybe I should have dedicated my book to him – posthumously – that is.
But I think it is some sort of fancy coincidence, fate, luck, whatever you want to call it – that my book, West End, has been released on this, his 207th Birthday.

West End has been “officially” released. I’m told it won’t be in bookstores – online or in person – for 3-5 days. OH THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART (yes, I think Tom Petty liked Poe too!)

As a child, I watched a squirrel crawl along an electrical line, elegant, delicate, like some high wire act, yet gone terribly wrong when it slipped and fell before my eyes.
A motorist passed, hit it. The squirrel screeched human sounds, jumped up on back feet, front paws stretched out, stumbled left, then right.
“It’s a dead end.” Mother’s whispered words lifted with a breeze.
“It’s the West End.” My father leaned away from her.
I held my breath, rooted for the squirrel until the very end, hoped that the car missed and, somehow, the creature might’ve a chance to limp home to recover.
But the squirrel was, life was, inextricably lost.
“Same thing,” mother’s quiet voice floated off with her gaze.
I think of that eye bulging from the squirrel’s body, trying to escape its own death, watching me through the back window of an old Chevy wagon.
Copyright 2016 – Noreen Lace/West End
Kids. Trains. Alcohol.
Coming out this month!
Pilcrow & Dagger’s August/September Issue is available for preview.
As well – my facebook author page is just being put together.
Thanks all!
Dark, dirty streets live in my mind
broken brick alleyways,
the color of blood in the midnight.
Streetlamps from another era
fasten me here for a short while.
The warm stickiness of old city grime,
it’s endless, never removed.
And I wonder,
Is this how it’s done?
Where the last step of a Jazz duo lay,
where the putrid decay of the dirty city lives?
Where words are scrawled across the walls in warm blood,
Is this where you find the poem?
Or just the poet,
looking?
Eeks, one of my first published poems; it appeared in Directions magazine about twenty years ago.
You must be logged in to post a comment.