Three Women: Poems After Sally Storch, by Jean L. Kreiling

Early Wednesday Evening, by Sally Storch (USA) contemporary. Reproduced with permission of the artist. Click on image for artist site.

 
Early Wednesday Evening

It’s been a long day.  Mr. Brickman snapped 
when I was too slow with his coffee; typing 
for eight hours left my intellect untapped, 
as usual; the other girls were sniping 
and spreading silly gossip.  Then the train 
was late and crowded—I stood up, beside 
a sweaty man—and my feet are in pain 
from these darned shoes.  I’ll find more pain inside 
this door, despite that warm light and that plush 
red chair, but even gravely ill, my James 
will greet me with a smile.  Still, I won’t rush 
right in; before the evening makes its claims,  
I’ll stand a moment in this dark doorway 
to take a few deep breaths and shed the day.
​

Summer Porch, by Sally Storch (USA) contemporary. Reproduced with permission of the artist. Click on image for artist site.

Summer Porch

It looks so perfect, doesn’t it? 
My house, my porch, my chair, my book, 
my dress—but take a closer look. 
Both house and body have been knit 
too tightly.  In the symmetry 
of arm and architecture, hard- 
won compromises strain to guard 
against collapse.  Stability 
became my prize when I could win 
no other—faithful husband, child 
to love—and so I’m reconciled 
to night air on my desperate skin, 
to peace like glass.  From where I sit 
perfection’s mostly counterfeit.

Night Stories, by by Sally Storch (USA) contemporary. Reproduced with permission of the artist. Click on image for artist site.

Night Stories

So many lighted windows—I had thought 
that no one else would still be up.  I ought 
to be asleep myself—I have to work  
tomorrow—but more mysteries still lurk 
in that thick book I took to bed, and out 
my window, also.  Curious about 
those lights, I’ve left my bed to stand here gazing 
at them—and someone might stare back, appraising 
my half-dressed self, but even so, I’d rather 
not close the curtains.  I’ll stay here and gather 
some stories that might rival what I’ve read. 
The book’s not bad, but I got out of bed 
to ponder other intrigue, so I guess 
not good enough.  And also, I confess 
that I’m just nosy; now and then I wonder 
what keeps my neighbors up, what stress they’re under, 
what fun they might be having.  I invent 
some possibilities, an incident 
or two, link people up and down a hall. 
The brightest window’s partiers might call 
their next-door neighbour (where the shade’s pulled low) 
to ask for ice; and she would like to know 
a little more about the man downstairs, 
who always nods and smiles at her, and wears 
expensive suits—but now his window’s dim, 
his lost job and his scotch absorbing him. 
Rage lights one window, as a couple fights, 
vision another, as a poet writes. 
Jazz riffs float out from someone’s stereo— 
too loud for this hour—but it’s apropos, 
a smooth sound for my stories’ noir-ish track. 
It’s after one a.m.; I should go back 
to bed, and let the tunes accompany 
the thriller I’ve been reading—probably 
improve it.  I voraciously consume 
these lurid potboilers; my narrow room 
recedes, in one way or another—pale 
beside the printed fiction or a tale 
that I’ve made up myself.  We both play fast 
and loose with facts—we both distort the past, 
revise the present—but reality 
should make way sometimes for a fantasy. 
And when at work tomorrow it’s not plot 
that thickens, only boredom, when I’ve got 
to finish that report right now!, I’ll grin, 
a little smug because of where I’ve been: 
these worlds where right now! means go get the ice! 
or get the bad guy!, where being precise 
means life or death or how much scotch to pour, 
where love or danger lives on the ninth floor. 
I’ve been to worlds my boss has never seen 
and followed lives he’ll never know.  Routine 
may occupy the day—I can’t rewrite 
those lifeless hours—but stories rule the night.

Jean L. Kreiling

Jean L. Kreiling is the prize-winning author of three poetry collections: Shared History (2022),  Arts & Letters & Love  (2018), and The Truth in Dissonance (2014).  She is an Associate Poetry Editor for Able Muse: A Review of Poetry, Prose & Art and a longtime member of the Powow River Poets; she lives on the coast of Massachusetts.