Jane Seskin is a licensed psychotherapist and the author of the poetry collection “OLDER, WISER, SHORTER: An Emotional Road Trip to Membership in the Senior Class” which won Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Digest self-published book awards. Her writing has appeared in national magazines and journals (i.e.Cosmopolitan, Narrative, NY Times, Jewish Currents, The New Social Worker). She has been a writer-in-residence at the Vermont Studio Center and Noepe Center for Literary Arts. She lives in NYC. You can read more of her work at https://www.olderwisershorter.com.
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Jane Seskin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
At the Local Goodwill
I fingered the scarves spilling
from the large straw basket by
the cash register, then made my
way to the back of the store
hoping to find a light raincoat for
the summer months, stopping at
the shoe rack to examine a pair
of beige sandals (too worn) and
black lace-up shoes (like new)
and OMG they had taps on their
soles and were my size!
With rising excitement,
I sat on a nearby bench and tied
sweet bows and was seven years
old again. Stood and raised my
waved them from side-to-side,
took a few steps listening to the
taps and bowed to the security
guard who was watching my joy
and smiling at me.
I was a little girl with
enthusiasm, pride and
dreams of dance recitals.
Today, today was my great good
I carried my memories
Rose Mary Boehm
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her most recent collection is The Rain girl. Her fifth poetry collection, DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS, has just been snapped up by Kelsay Books for publication May/June 2022. Her website: https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Rose Mary Boehm and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
High Noon in Seville
Somewhere in the old town I walk towards your flat.
Occasionally my leather sandals slip on the century-worn
stones. Horses and their carriages are resting
under the sycamores. At this time of day even
tourists idle over their lunches. Chords
from a flamenco guitar bounce softly against
the tenement walls. There is that warm horse scent
of wood chips, dust, hay, and sweat. The coachmen
snore softly, committed to their siestas.
Your neighbour, the fat old woman, never looks up.
Her door is always open. The air is cooler in the hallway.
Temperatures in their forties C are only the beginning.
Summers are killers in Seville. The old woman smells
of animal buried in hot earth.
A smell so intimate I blush.
On this hot, lazy summer afternoon only the flies
buzz, the guitar stops and starts, a horse’s
hoof occasionally clanks metal against stone.
I daren’t ring your bell but knock.
Even the knocking jars.
Your sleepy face in the door frame,
lips pursed. There is a waft of summer sex
and perfume of an unknown brand.
Your skin can’t lie.