Lake View Park West by Brianna Peck

I come from the grey estate on the lake.

Where the water’s bed runs sandy in the winter time.

The old radiator creaks in exhaustion,

and cinnamon pine cone wafts in December.

The tree lights twinkle on the snowbanks beyond the window, winking with its glow.

The ornaments are champagne and merlot.

We adorn our tree with crystalline grapes and prick our fingers on its needles.

The fireplace ticks to a start,

and people kneel before it to warm their knuckles,

like the nun unto the pew.

I come from the grey estate on the lake.

In the country, where the animals fear humans like we do the gods.

The chandelier glitters on every wall at eight.

The hour where the sun bleeds in through the windows, bathing the foyer in golden light.

In the summer, children wade into the lake and pinch vegetables from the neighbor’s garden.

Out on the veranda, Father plucks his six-string, as he watches the sun plunge beneath the edge of the earth.

He belts the blues:

Love ain't easy -- it’s a test of wills. Love all you can now. Get what you will.

He sips a glass of Sauvignon from his free hand.

It’s the color of the moon after dusk.

In the night, silence hums from the edge of the docks to the apex of my cathedral ceiling.

Mother, below me, is pattering about in the early morning.

By the cold candle, she bathes and dresses.

Her car is gone from the garage by the time the early bird stirs. 

I come from the grey estate on the lake.

Where the bald eagles soar through the blue in the east and seek respite in the west.

They don’t know that the fireworks in July are for them. 

They don’t know the pleasure of mulled wine and live music. 

I come from silver panels, wooden palisades, and windows the size of walls

I come from the grey estate on the lake.