Our Last Trip to Ashland
Southern Oregon was on fire
when we came for the Shakespeare Festival,
the sun a blood-red disc in the sky.
The first night an outdoor performance
of Romeo and Juliet was cancelled,
the air-quality hazardous to our health.
The novelty of seeing crowds waiting
in lines, standing on street corners
all wearing face masks.
Pericles Prince of Tyre risks death
to solve a riddle. Solving it
he risks death again.
A six day vacation that was like
a premonition. By the next summer
you would be dead, the summer
after that, COVID 19.
Pericles sails treacherous waters. Actors
stand at opposite ends of the stage shaking
long strips of fabric, the same smoky gray
color as the sky over Ashland.
You bought the t-shirt in the hotel lobby,
To sleep, perchance to dream.
The gods tell Pericles where to find
his beloved Thaisa, rescued from her coffin
floating on the sea.
I look for you at the shoreline.
My Mother Dreams of Red Birds
When my mother was in the memory ward,
dying impatiently, (put that pillow over my face,
then press down) I would visit after work,
help her transition into sleep, as she had
so often helped me. Our conversations were simple.
She’d forgotten so much.
Before leaving I would kiss her fingers, the same
cool hands that had soothed my fevers and nightmares,
then sit in the parking lot with its narrow
strip of grass, and the fence, and the Catholic School
beyond, composing myself for the drive home.
Last night just before sleep, I remembered
that parking lot, loud with crickets, and the school
lit up for some special occasion, parents
and children walking together into the building.
It was one of those late September nights
when you first notice the dark coming early,
and then an impossible flock of cardinals flew
overhead, birds native to my mother’s Midwest,
but not here in California.
And so, my mother lulled me into sleep once again,
her dreams merging into mine, still haunting me
from her casket, wearing her comfortable shoes.
Ellen Romano resumed writing poetry after a thirty year break when the COVID pandemic and the sudden death of her husband left her with a need to express herself in a new way. She lives in Hayward, California and enjoys frequent visits with her children and grandchildren. She is the winner of Third Wednesday’s 2023 Poetry Prize, Ink Nest Poem of the Month, and several awards from the Ina Coolbrith Circle. Other work has appeared in, Lascaux Review, december magazine, Naugatuck River Review, and other publications.
January House Literary Journal 
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