Author’s Note

The following poems are an excerpt from Shannon Vare Christine’s verse novella, These Walls, forthcoming March 13th. The summary below gives context to the book, as you read the poems that follow. See the author’s bio for more information about how you can get a copy of These Walls.

Philadelphia, 1985: shuttered factories, stubborn neighborhoods, where racial tensions, economic decline, and fierce local pride coexisted with block-by-block resilience and the daily insistence on survival.

Philadelphia, 2020: hushed, anxious city-streets half-empty under lockdown, grief and fear moving through house walls even as neighbors found quict, improvised ways to care for one another amid uncertainty.

The Baldwins lived here in 1985 and the McClarens took up residence in 2020. Their experiences were separate yet similar as they inhabited the same Philadelphia home, worlds apart. These Walls is a verse novella in which the house serves as a quiet witness telling the story of these two families. As the poems move between timelines, striking parallels emerge in how families respond to crises, care for one another, and absorb public history into their private lives. Intimate and spare, TheseWalls explores how place holds memory, revealing how different generations endure remarkably similar struggles—-and how history lingers within the walls we call home.

Philadelphia, PA, 2020

1954: Brick by brick, I rose.
            Summer of integration plans, unrest.
Rock and roll beat down.
            Humid waves rose from us
from the black asphalt streets
            warn the city the days ahead
would slowly simmer      slow boil       rolling boil
            roiling                        churning       turbid                        turmoil
until tensions spilled onto the streets.
My shingle-roofed covered porch, columned fortress
false protections
I bore witness                      protests marches riots.
Now, I am powerless.
My wood and bricks defend contend maintain, but
to the families living within
I am home.
My heart-soul beats deep
            within my foundation core.
Late at night, stand stick still at my side.
            Creaks crack my spine-walls
                        squinchy steps shudder stretch
                                    whisper-whys-sighs slip out

as I settle                                                      down
                                    to sleep.
Expansion-contraction-communication,
each family’s language, their dialect.
 
I have had many makeovers in my day
            painting  restyling  additions  subtractions.

The Montgomerys moved out
made room for the Baldwins.
After the Baldwins
along came Susie Floyd.
Then family, family, family                    fast forward
years-decades———                                 now.
Brings us to the McClarens, their visions
            my fixer upper status charmed their
            DIY, TLC hearts.
But me? I don’t get a say.
I’m growing weary of these renovations.
Break through the kitchen wall,
            strip away the mauve carpeting,
lay bare the soft planks of pine flooring,
            tear out the mint green jadeite sinks, 
reveal original brick, buried under creamy stucco.
Mid-century modern farmhouse is my new name.
            On and on and on and on and on and——- 
No space sacred.
No surface untouched.
Am I even structurally sound?
It’s unsettling not to have a voice, a choice,
            always the mercy of another’s will.
But in the end:
No one can ever erase my soul,
            the layered years stored within,
                        my frame (history), nestled (history),
                                    in between (history) the
                                                attic (history) beams,
                                                            buried underground.
This is where I hold
two families worth of secrets———————————

                                                                                    until now.

That One Time in the Baldwin Family TV Room, 1985

Room by room:
contents are emptied        corralled       covered.
Kate redecorates                redesigns      debates 
ditsy florals   vs.   pastels.   vs.   plaids.   vs.   leather. 
Kate has a singular mission.
Not everyone will be converted.
 
The oldest of five prays daily, nightly
this room will be spared.
These scratchy, synthetic, woolen nubs,
this duct-tape-patched olive green.
On this hallowed couch, Jessie cut
her musical molars, sunk her teeth into
video-upon-video-upon-world-premiere-video.
Robotic chants , tinny sirens,
holding teens transfixed:
                                                I want my M-T-V.
Blessed be Madonna, The Bangles, Boy George,
Bruce the Boss, Beastie Boys.
Blessed be their blared bass tracks,
background gospel truths,
inner monologues of Jessie’s days and nights.
My four walls shook:
music, dancing: could not contain Jessie.
 
Kate studies her paint swatch and carpet sample bound Bibles, coordinating colors,
tries to choose wisely:
prays this will                                 be the solution
that brings the                                family together
more often                                       once again.
This sacred space               had a visiting preacher
from time to time.              Jessie’s beloved older cousin     always draws me in                      for some drama.           Tiffany barks orders                                  as soon as she                      comes down the stairs:                  Stand there, yep,       little to the left, ok, hold it,              h-o-l-d-i-t.      Don’t move.
 
Jessie is a proud, loyal disciple of Tiffany:
nods her obedient Orphan Annie curls, waits.
Tiffany dangles her Casio keyboard
in the crook of one arm, wields her copy
of Purple Rain in the other.
A door-to-door preacher bringing along
the good news of pop culture,
ready to convert her cousin with one flick
of her jelly-braceleted, neon-plastic
watch covered arms, outstretched in reverence
to the deities of the ‘80s who appear:
shadowy specters, on the vacuum-tubed TV screen.
I silently wait for the miracle
to be bestowed upon Jessie:
                                                Will today be the day?
Tiffany bows toward Jessie:
You can play one song
watch one music video if you…
 
I hold my breath, keep my walls still,
hoping Jessie doesn’t have to sell her soul.
 
Jessie agrees to the terms:
cleans Tiffany’s bedroom,
mops the kitchen,
takes out the trash, and
washes her laundry for the        next            full         week.
And one more thing…         Tiffany holds the power.
Jessie stands perfectly still.
Sweat droplets down her back,
muscles tense then shake,
threatens to move her hand,
holding the tinfoil rabbit ear antenna in tune.
 
Both cousins thought they had
the best seats in the house
to watch the televised Live Aid Concert.
Tiffany’s sermons were moving.
Jessie never wavered once.
Her initiation ceremony almost complete.
Jessie held on,
Tiffany played along, hoping to
turn this world around…put your troubles down…
a chant, a prayer, a creed:
welcoming Jessie into the Cousin Cult of 1985.
 
Kate watched them from the stairs:
knew this space didn’t need her salvation.

The McClaren Family TV Room, 2020

As I get ready to settle in for the night / the TV glow
beckons me / to check in / on them

one more time.

I watch over Lindsay and James / their silent
guardian house angel / ready to alert them / if anything is

out of place.

Before lockdown / quarantine / before the world /
put on pause / hold, please / I was alone

most times.

I didn’t worry / wasn’t nervous / never thought /
disaster could strike / close to home to harm

out of habit.

No travel plans / the lovebirds grounded / No
concerts / Broadway shows / roost ruminate.
For how long? / No one knows. / Lindsay sprawls on couch / stretches legs, limbs
/ redefines hours

out of mind.

James perches on his chair: / settles into: / front row: / tonight’s living room
concert: / relax retreat:

passing time.

Grainy live-streams: / Zoom-cast episodes /
well-worn TV shows / characters reunite /
raise funds:

ideas run out.

Stand-up acts. / Book talks / Movie premieres. / World shows up. / Pays a visit: /
to their nest:

serving time.

I peek at them again: / content for now. / Small
admission fee: / tunes / jokes / return to them:

ending silence.

Crowd out boredom. / The outside world / will spin once more / they’ll fly. / I’ll be here:

waiting.

waiting.

waiting.

*

Shannon Vare Christine is a poet, teacher, and critic living in Bucks County, PA. She is an alumnus of The Community of Writers and Tupelo Press 30/30 Project. Her poems are featured in various anthologies and publications, and her manuscript, Chrysanthemum, was a finalist for publication by The Word Works. Additionally, her poetry reviews and literary criticism were published or are forthcoming in Lily Poetry Review, The Lit Pub, Cider Press Review, Sage Cigarettes, Compulsive Reader, The Laurel Review, Vagabond City, Tupelo Quarterly, The Los Angeles Review of Books, Harbor Review, and Uirtus.
 

Archived writing and a copy of These Walls:
www.shannonvarechristine.com
Instagram @smvarewrites
Substack: @shannonvarechristine