by Alice Campbell Romano
This river savaged my neighbor
poured six feet of water into his basement
water higher than his head
In another house
and another
and another
she slopped up onto the first floor,
onto the boards
onto the rugs
ruthless
No sooner did one neighbor
finish his repairs
after the hurricane—
seventy-five thousand dollars—
than the river
bulged,
swelled,
pooled,
in every room,
floated
his new furniture,
gurgled and laughed
and rose up outside to cover cars
parked on the street
And down the street on the corner
the whole corner is lined with everything
the family who lives in the house on the corner
has to throw away
chairs, a sofa, bookcases, baby beds, cabinets,
whatever was contained in the cabinets,
why name them all? Everything stored
until a time when the family would agree on
what to sell and when, and now there’s nothing but
mush and melted glue and sog.
The river today winks and scintillates
under the bridge, well between her banks
while a few early autumn leaves ride her ripples.
Am I not beautiful, she whispers.
Alice Campbell Romano lived a dozen years in Italy where she adapted Italian movie scripts into English, married a dashing Italian movie-maker, made children, and moved with the family to the U.S., where they built, she wrote, and the children grew. Her poems have appeared in—among other venues—Prometheus Dreaming, Persimmon Tree, Pink Panther Magazine, Orchards Poetry, New Croton Review; Beyond Words, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Quartet Journal, Instant Noodles Devil's Press, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press. In January, she was awarded HONORABLE MENTION in The Comstock Review's 2022 Chapbook contest, "...not an award that we give every year, but an honor set aside for a few manuscripts." Alice swooned.
