Muthering Heights
by David Burke, Victoria
Volume 35 Issue 7, 8 & 9 | Posted: October 4, 2021
The radical calm of those green lawns
haunts me in a way
unlike any old neighborhood on the planet.
The affluence of the Martian landscape in the lane by the firehall
where they would set the world on fire every Halloween,
hosing down the jump tower lest the hot metal
should buckle and twist
and come crashing down
on young Peter in his clown costume;
Sleep ferment and radical force
with the still green lawns
and the dead skateboards;
my mother is in the garden plotting her bequest of Dickens and Dali.
Her dragon ornaments guard the rows of fennel
and fury, while the mystery cat
peeks from the basement door.
High dudgeon reeks from my sister’s room
as she writes her novel,
chalk full of misty heroines and gay shopmen.
The mistakes of a hundred year old spell,
The Gothic wonder across the street
with its ponderous portico
Kate Bush banging away at its stolid foundations.
Move away and return,
bags in hand,
to estimate the exact blunder and wrath of the quiet neighborhood.
There will be no block party,
It is enough to meet the old Scottish lady on the beach
and talk about her hip operation.
She seems hip enough.
No membership at the tennis club,
no windsurfing,
no Kawsaki in the year two thousand;
just planning a crass romance
under the patio lanterns,
a good drunk
and a cheap funeral.
by David Burke, Victoria