“PORTRAIT IN WATERCOLOR / the inhabitants of houses” by Ave Jeanne Ventresca

Ave Jeanne Ventresca is an American/Italian author of nine chapbooks of poetry reflecting social and environmental concerns. Her award winning poetry has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications (USA) for twenty years. Poetry from her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019. 

A Word from the Author:

I was revisiting the stories and poems of N. Scott Momaday. His voice urged me into new perceptions on how the building of a dwelling, or house, transfers into a home. People throughout the world are vigilant about the crafting of a good life and the creation of the future in their homes. I extended my thinking on just how homes are decorated with various animate and inanimate objects, meaningful books and photos, aromas from recipes of their culture, and the potent voices of their past.

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below this geometry of geese, whose 

wings of symmetry crosses 

sky all chubby clouds, and within earth

of different shades of brown, 

we build houses. 

we fill them with bison hides and 

reassuring old chairs, coneflowers, and 

nights of dancing. to keep them resilient, 

every wall owns its own pigment, each

floor contains a certain number of tears, 

and intricate patterns of tradition. we give 

them inhabitants. allow them dreaming 

and anticipation. adorn them with hymns 

for unforeseen directions. we call them by 

name, pronounce each out loud when we 

make love or share faces 

with death. we speak 

these names, light like feathers, on days 

of importance.  when throats are dry 

and memories many. below these rooftops

we create 

purposeful arrangements of adjectives and 

nouns to make emotions noticeable to others. 

we gather corn, bean, and conversations, 

constantly aware how wind flows bold, and 

seasons become full. 

like large buffalo, we tend to together stand, 

in graveyards where silence is the home.

now, relying on weeds and thick roots 

to support our heavy skulls.