August 15th. We’re a ghost town—just us
And the standoffish widow,
Her jangly terrier and vintage Peugeot.

Haven’t seen them street-side in—how long now?
But at bedtime
I see her television screen flicker

And these sultry nights with windows
Open to whatever is out there
Watching with us, and the neighborhood

Quiet as a grave, I can hear the sound—
A dialogue,
One voice quavers, the other threatens.

I can picture my neighbor: spine straight,
Her fingers knit in her lap,
Pooch curled up at her feet . . .

A Western, by the frantic whinnying
And clatter of hooves,
In which Virtue talks back to Villainy,

From a position of weakness
It goes without saying; and her roses
Hold their sweet breath at the window.

                          —Beverley Bie Brahic

A Message from the Editors

As a reader of our efforts, you have stood with us on the front lines in the battle for culture. Learn how your support contributes to our continued defense of truth.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 40 Number 1, on page 81
Copyright © 2021 The New Criterion |