Sara Epstein
Bar of Rest
Semi-breve, that silent rest,
hangs from the middle staff,
indicates nothing, goes nowhere,
pauses before the next lively
relentless phrase.
Gentle rain splatters stones
and oak leaves outside my window,
oak leaves float, swirl, crash down
or still cling and hover mid-branch,
they bide their time until they fall.
Saturday morning at 11:30
we pause, hold our breath
as phones ding, chime, sing
Biden has won the election.
Now we tremble, shake,
release waves of tension
more than we can name.
Semi-breve, name of the restaurant
I want to open, who knows when?
Where we can pause, eat, drink,
in between what was
and whatever comes next.
Like La Llibertària cafe
in Barcelona, still serving
as it did during the Spanish Civil War
the resistance fighters and us,
we who remember them.
Menu at Semi-Breve:
Chicken pot pie, soft double chocolate
brownies with blueberry sauce.
Edith Piaf sings.
On the walls, rotating exhibits,
paintings or photos of the rest:
ballots being counted,
pussy hats from the women’s march,
a cactus plant’s sangria blooms.
Doctors, parents, nurses, teachers, kids:
those who lived and those who died.
—Submitted on 12/07/2020
Sara Epstein‘s poems have appeared in Mocking Heart Review, Silkworm, Paradise in Limbo, Mom Egg Review, Chest Journal, and other journals. She is a clinical psychologist and lives in Winchester, Mass.
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