Dianalee Velie
is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, and has a Master of Arts in Writing from Manhattanville College, where she has served as faculty advisor of Inkwell: A Literary Magazine. She has taught poetry, memoir, and short story at universities and colleges in New York, Connecticut and New Hampshire and in private workshops throughout the Northeast.
Her award-winning poetry and short stories have been widely published in the US and Canada and her play, Mama Says, was presented in a staged reading in New York City.
She is the author of three books of poetry, Glass House, First Edition, and The Many Roads to Paradise published by Rock Village Publishing in Middleborough, Massachusetts.
Dianalee is also the president of The Velie Memorial Fund, Inc., dedicated to building a playground in Newbury, New Hampshire in memory of her murdered family, Currie-Hill Velie and her sons Joseph John Velie IV and Jack Jasper Velie. One dollar from the sale of every copy of First Edition goes directly to this fund.
—Back to Orsorum Contents/Issue Links—
|
Mrs. Wakefield
After the short story Wakefield by E.L. Doctorow
Did he think I couldn’t see him, hiding above the garage?
At first, I laughed, wondering how long my husband’s silliness
would last. Then weariness of his stupidity changed to anger.
The longer this continued, the more accustomed I became
to being alone. I dressed and undressed, purposely, in front
of the bedroom’s big bay window, knowing he was watching.
My career flourished as I tossed my wife hat wantonly
to the wind. I watched him get shaggier daily, grow
long shabby hair and go unshaven, thinking he was hidden.
In the beginning, I tossed enough food scraps in the garbage
to sustain life, his, but then I left with the children
for two weeks. Let him live like a tramp and try to survive!
When we returned, I felt violated to see traces of his hair
in the shower. Soon, his dear friend, Dirk, began coming
to dinner, often to console me, more often to seduce.
Then last night, he stayed and I drew the curtains shut.
My greatest delight: the footprints in the snow outside the bedroom
window and the click, click, click of the unlit propane pilot.
The police were sympathetic. “So much sorrow, Ma’am.
First the disappearance of your husband, and now,
your garage lost to arson.
These footprints match those of a vagrant seen lurking
around the clinic next door. We’ve had our eyes on him.”
I offered the officer a sweet, timid smile of thanks.
Since it was Saturday, we all went to a movie.
No need to hang around, I had parked
the S.U.V. nowhere near the garage.
Falling into a reassuring sleep that night
in Dirk’s arms, I jumped out of bed, swearing
I heard Wakefield’s voice, hurling out these hot words,
“Honey, I’m home.”
|
