Brenna Courtney studies at the University of Virginia.
There is some sweet scent, earthy
and dizzying, and the dark birds perform
pretty dives in the lowering light. It is too late
to take the path shrouded by rough bush
and honeysuckle, with its playground, and the fence
for the playground (the latter, dismantled,
stakes propped up into a sort of stout, pointed
fortress). One by one, the wide porches
unfold their legs, and pairs of rocking chairs
coax their owners to rest. The beckoned amble home
with their hands behind their backs, their postures
blanketed by silence. I take good care to
avoid them, though there is nothing
hostile in their eyes.
One thought on “Brenna Courtney, “Neighborhood Walkers””
I enjoyed the imagery in this poem, particularly “dark birds perform pretty dives” and “the wide porches unfold their legs.” I also appreciated the sounds, especially repetition of S, P, D, and L.
The attitude of the narrator at the end is interesting too. It makes me wonder, is she shy? Does she just not want to emotionally invest in knowing her neighbors?