Lady With The Lemon Dress​

Issue 6

They can’t see sounds, the glass too thick
to drum them up. The swallows gulp
lifting from pines: we have lift-off.
 
They can see the police-ribboned house
where a record player scratched
old vinyl show tunes and ballads.
 
They knew the lady who lived there,
delighting in the lemon dress
she wore on Sundays.
 
They lusted secretly,
in sullen shadow times
behind their black out curtains.
 
On the other hand, there
was a man, an ample man
a manly man with Elvis hair.
 
You look like macaroni,
reported a mirror one day,
one that you’ve since avoided.
 
No hiding the real from us, man,
barring sleight-of-hand or trap
door diversionary cleverness.
 
But even magicians lend an ear.
See, the eyes could see no harm
beyond a puff of smoke.
 
Later, they saw drops of blood
leading to or from the house.
But alas, they never heard the screams.

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SALVATORE DIFALCO lives in Toronto.

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