• Broadkill Review

"While Waiting for Curbside Pick-Up" by Jeff Bernstein



Contemplate the rhythm of a pandemic,

listen, listen, fiddleheads open and trees

riot quietly from flower to leaf, invisible

sadness takes the meadow among vivid

songbirds in full karaoke. Late winter

walks fade in the rearview mirror, daughter

now visits most every weekend, last Sunday

she and boyfriend built raised beds,

timbers fairly gleamed in the sun’s reflection

off the solar panels that replicate sky

from the barn roof. Try to imagine next fall’s

harvest with no end in view, son’s on FaceTime,

he’s returned to the other coast after two months

in the hills of Central Vermont with the parents,

too still; safe, yes, but silent. A frail, fraying world

connected by a surfeit of screens while

ancient dog steps gingerly through the soft,

soft grass and shrubs I never noticed before

dispatch missives of delicate pink-white

threads on faint evening breezes.


So much certainty is gone, or what

we used to call certainty, before

that Wednesday when shutdowns cascaded

from the parquet floor of the NBA

to the mountains. Around the world really.

Still, depend on some things: late afternoon

videocalls, a cacophony of peepers

that does not fade until after midnight,

yellow warblers, full-throated at first light, wind

gentling over the ridge, hillside ashes, birches,

oaks foreshadowing fall, clad now

in yellows, greens, carnelian. The dooryard

magnolia puts on a show for the ages.


Both dogs sleep by my feet on the front porch

where afternoon sun is best over the mountains.

I’ve never seen such tenderness. Oh, you could

tick off a long list of what’s lost until well

past darkness –it comes later and later each night.

Things are never truly settled but now

the stutter’s front and center if you want to look

beyond the bittersweet afternoon shadows

lengthening towards the solstice the way

childhood used to slip imperceptibly past.





A lifelong New Englander, Jeff Bernstein watches the seasons slowly turn in these strange times from a hillside in Central Vermont with an occasional foray into town. The dogs maintain our sanity and provide all forms of relief. Poetry is his favorite and earliest art form (he can’t draw a whit or hold a tune). He would most have liked to have been, like Thoreau, “an inspector of snow-storms and rain-storms… [a] surveyor, if not of highways, then of forest paths and all across-lot routes.” Recent poems have appeared in, among other public cations, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Best Indie Lit New England, The Centrifugal Eye, Cooweescoowee, Edison Literary Review, Grasslimb, The Kerf, The Midwest Quarterly, Mulberry Fork Review, Paper Nautilus, Pinyon, Plum Tree Tavern, Reckless Writing Poetry Anthology, Rockhurst Review, Silkworm and Tipton Poetry Journal. He is the author of two chapbooks; his full-length collection Nightfall, Full of Light was published in 2017 by Turning Point.


142 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

In the ditch a deer carcass, no head from You Are Happy by Margaret Atwood It was a silent beauty I found, had yearling antlers, much more than the horny buttons of a fawn. Its fleshy muscles would pr

The Bigness of the Herd I can never get over the bigness of the herd, the stampede of clouds cascading over the warehouse, I-70’s commercial river of blood lights: heads or tails? Nothing could be mor