Sandra Evans Falconer
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Poems are from the collection, The Lucky Spot Dance


Hearts, Held

For a gift one Christmas
I bought Steven miniature chocolates,
each one wrapped in pictures
of  playing cards:
The Queen of Hearts,
the Jack of Clubs.
For years every Yuletide he kept them
in a cut glass bowl.
I knew the chocolate inside
had to be brittle,
probably bitter.
Perhaps he hadn’t liked the taste,
or never tried one.
The chocolates became 
like the unwrapped soap in his bathroom,
the fish forks, still shiny,
above the sink:
these small gifts, pleasures
somehow synonymous with guilt.
Luxuries dealt like cards;
a good hand never played,
but held in tight,
close to the heart.

Picture
(published in The Baltimore Review, Summer 2000)




Old Times                                                                       

is what I call the snapshot
Peter sent to me
of the three of us somewhere
by the water in the early l97O’s.
Peter is sitting on the fender 
of  Dad’s black rolls royce
in his jeans and white sneakers,
his big bushy hair is the color
of  English toffee.
Steven is next to him,
just home from Oxford,
dressed in his summer linen suit,
shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
He’s holding the leashes of the two corgis,
sitting in front of him, ears pointed,
staring into the camera.
I’m leaning beside Steven
as though we’d  just gone swimming,
& I’d floated up alongside of him.
My cheek is touching his shoulder.
We’re all in our twenties,
smiling easily, taking our time,
as though any minute
we might get up & walk out of  this picture
for a late breakfast by the dock,  
or a  run down the beach
with the dogs or drive down 
the hill to Groton Long Point
where the sun’s still out & South Beach 
is crowded & a red  striped sunfish
is just beyond the riptide - 
can you see this
the way I’m seeing it now?
sitting here at my desk,
30 years past this photograph,
doing what I’ve always done
when I need to find out 
how I feel or what I need -
I write down whatever I see &
give it a name: Old Times.
It’s my way of holding onto 
What’s already gone –
the sailboat no longer in sight,
the young faces of my two brothers,
the dark haired girl who
looks so much like me.

The Dazzle of Beads

My bathroom looks the same 
as you saw it last.
The dogwood branch, sprayed white,
festooned with its earrings & bright beads,
the rocks arranged on the sink,
a lavender sea fan
netting a pair of miniature pointe shoes.
"Where's the john? " Mother 
used to joke,
looking for simple porcelain,
ordinary spigots at the sink. 
You used to drag friends 
clear across the living room
to see the place where I prepare 
myself to face the world outside.
I rise daily to that world,
with memories of another:
Dad walking barefoot down the hall
searching my bathroom in vain
for a comb,
Peter's homemade sign
hanging on the door:
"This room is condemned
by the Board of Health."
And then you,
so taken by my harmless pageantry,
the only one who 
stopped by to see the whimsy,
and clearly cherished it,
loved all of me,
down to the last brilliant bead.
Picture
( Third Prize Award,  Annual Poetry Contest, Baltimore City Paper, 2002)  

Steven Narrates in Dad’s Volkswagon

Driving up to Connecticut in the rain in Dad’s old car – I found out the roof
leaks like a bloody rowboat -  when I pulled into the toll booth at Darien, a posiden-esque wave crashed over the back seat. For the next six hours, there wasn’t a dry spot in the car. I spent most of the trip rushing down hills to get as much of the water up front as possible. A rising water table behind my back was all I needed for a total meltdown.  Why can’t Dad take care of his cars? I tried to ignore suction sounds and the distinct pull of an undertow. I must have had over five gallons, though I didn’t 
actually measure. I went from Styrofoam cups to sponges, to a boat pump just to keep my knees above water. Oh Sandra, imagine me, whizzing over the Tapanzee, bailing, bailing…

A Remedy, of Sorts


A narrow porch off the dining room.
Sliced apples & roast beef sandwiches 
on the stained pewter tray from Connecticut.
Marigolds from his garden. A shot glass of scotch.
“My medicine,” Steven smiled, as he saw me
look at the glass that stifling July afternoon
on Quince St. We ate lunch & watched
 as the woman in the house across the way
walked from room to room, drawing the long
 curtains closed & calling the dog back in,
trying to keep everything inside cool, 
at least bearable.


Critic

Hi Ho Dearie,

      After talking with you the other night during your latest hair wizardry session, I have to ask:  How did it go with the Chocolate Kiss Rinse?  Wouldn’t a session at Elizabeth Arden make a bit more sense? You never were very chemically minded you know. Just warn me if I’m going to see you at the train station with tresses the color of an azalea… 

Ta, Ta,
Steven

Soon My Sister will Go On Pointe

Yes, my dear, your ballet slippers were right here in the bedroom where you
left them last weekend. Today I stopped at the post, feeling as though I was sending 
a package to Cinderella or Markova. I was glad to mail them back to you, worn out as they are. With the Nutcracker just a few Snow Queen weeks away, I knew you would relish their return.

Pas de Bourree!

Pax,

Steven 

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