In Dad’s Shop, He Cradles Bolts
of camel hair and
cashmere, tames
the matter unfurling
to the floor. With sharp
pins held in his teeth
and a small shard
of soap, he sketches
his language onto me,
multiplied in triple mirrors. The treadle
of a sewing machine slows
when the tailor looks up to read
the crosshatching. Maybe
next week, the first
fitting, he tells me. Months
later, October’s
brilliance claps my shoulder
but the pattern’s off, the fabric,
scratchy. Each fall these blinding
days fold in on another
season of alterations I fail
to make while the Day
of Atonement passes. When
will I be ready to know
markings or codes outside
the contours of a winter coat? |
The Summer of Shorty Pajamas
Puckered cotton, perfect for nights
when the air hung
curtains around my bed. When the August
of my thirteenth year melted
road tar, I’d roll wads between
fingers and chew until my blackened
tongue told on me. Mother
and I were bull’s-eyes
for the sun after rubbing
lotion over our bodies, brown
as berries. Her reach
stretched past sight itself until
the night Dad had one
too many with a business
crony. When I came to kiss
him good night in the pajamas
with tiny bluebells and thin
strip of lace edging
the neckline, Dad lifted
up my top—voilà,
like it was magic: Look,
look at our Susan. |
Crossing 1964
In harbor, the HMS Elizabeth
was frightening in size. When I called her
a boat, Mrs. B corrected me: We
are on a ship, and a damn
good one at that. While high school
myths had me hooked
on heroes’ impossible odds, I walked
the gangplank, flanked by my new
husband and in-laws, each holding stiff
leather cases monogrammed in a trio
of letters. My trousseau
gowns wrapped in tissue
were chosen for the formal
dining with captain and first
mate. A watchful
Mrs. B. cautioned
against the three D’s—Death,
Divorce and Disaster—banned in polite
company as I spread Russian
caviar on toast points, raised a pink
lipstick-rimmed flute, fizzy with Cliquot,
and clinked mute
hellos to the black
tie and mink-draped
crowd. An on-board squash
court allowed father and son, emotions
suppressed before birth, to aggress
until one, beaten
and nullified, offered a gentleman’s
handshake to reset
the rules. For this family, kisses
were pecks and bodies braced
against hugs. The ship’s
pool for guessing the distance covered
each day created another fraught
contest before afternoon
bracers of steaming
bouillon. In the writing
salon, fountain
pens thick with ink
and small piles of blue
aerograms were stacked for
travelers eager to scribble
on paper stained with the Queen’s
watermark. Having mastered
the letter’s folding directions, I chose
instead to shout through static
for a transatlantic
birthday call to Mother—a miracle
of science, she marveled. Day 3, storm
clouds enshrouded me, QE’s
stabilizers irresolute, as
seasick I heaved, certain
I’d never
make it through the roughest
crossing on record—nor ever
know what this maiden
voyage would yield. |
News
Dad always held back
the screen door with an elbow, a loaf
of bread from Lantieri’s
under his arm,
and leaned into the steamy
kitchen for her kiss. That was the way
he came home that July night,
except there was no
bread under his arm, his tie
wasn’t quite right, and only
one foot was in
the kitchen, the other strangely
outside, while he bent
against the screen
as if he couldn’t bear the weight
of the news he broke—We lost
Mom. I don’t remember
anything after, except we tried
to eat something, Dad made
a lot of calls, and the house grew
empty with strangers. |
I Wanted to Tell You
about the cardinal’s blacker-
than-coal beak against
his breast, dressed
orangine in this light, how
he lit upon the pear’s muscled
branch with forsythia
busting yellow heads
beyond. You didn’t
get it—truly, you couldn’t
conjure up this scene
in front of your
distracted eyes, even
if everything
you cared about
depended on it. Instead
of a breakdown, I light
the gas and warm
waves of pale oil.
At six I hear the door
open in triumph.
Your thumb slits envelopes—
a paper flurry in the hall—
and your briefcase thuds to
its corner home. Then a light
tap to the paperweight and small
photograph on the desk to reset
symmetry, wild trumpets
of amaryllis and zealous
paperwhites just this
side of too sweet, unnoticed.
I peel, chop, quarter, cube
then mix native
vegetables and purple
basil into the large
speckled bowl. An unwieldy
onion rings my finger but angry
tears fall free.
Even this
ratatouille built from yellow
peppers and cherry
tomatoes turns opaque. |
Recipe for the Lonely
He doesn’t believe you—
and never will. Hang
up the phone. Open
the Montrachet into his
gift of handblown
glass. Slip Art
Tatum into the CD
changer, then blanch
green beans,
smash fat
garlic cloves into virgin
olive oil, warming. So he
thinks you dissed
his daughter when she
came east. Remove
when golden, add hot
red flakes and fuck you
Seattle to crispy pancetta,
raise the heat until
you cool down, season
with coarsely
ground pepper. Chop
the hell out of a fistful
of parsley and dress
your best plate
as “Humoresque” breaks
into arpeggios. |
NYC Vita
“The only color we have left is Rain,” the shop
girl tells me, wrapping the dress in noiseless
tissue, “but, it’s stunning with your
tobacco shoes.” She leans close
and whispers, “Rush, I know
your scent, it’s Rush”—louder now
as I leave, checking
once over my shoulder to make
sure she’s not coming to expose
me for just another
sucker seduced by any
slick package. A bus plastered
with an ingénue’s smile sends me
to a CVS for anti-aging
promises in a jar. Ruby Stain resists
the back of my hand like a tattoo
turned ugly, weeping into lip lines, a hard
look against Baby’s Face
brushed over the arcs
of my cheeks. Under my skirt, Barely
There panties have shifted uncomfortably.
I don’t see the young meter maid until
she looks at me as she passes. But
in that moment I see
myself in a loopy grin
forming at the corner
of her pale mouth as she slaps
a hot pink ticket under the blade. |
À la Carte
How can I make a poem for you
when all I think about is crushing
slivered almonds while heating
elliptical globes of garlic that bring
you to your knees with their urgency?
Heady now from the rush, I toast
bread crumbs with curls of parsley.
You hold mushroom caps on the swelling
of your palm and gently press
stuffing into crevices, crown
the flutings until full. We sprinkle
cheese, spritz with pale
wine, bake until bronzed. It helps
to have a concentration
of the right ingredients. Take,
for instance, a nice
Jewish boy and a half
Jewish girl with mother-in-law who swears
that food is love. |
Glove Making In Rome
With the soft underside of my arm
in one hand, he cradled my elbow
into a pillow of green
velvet and set my upper
arm at a right angle
semaphore. Samples
of pigskin, suede, and calf,
in small piles on his worktable, smelled
faintly of rough play, the working
and reworking of skin. He guided
the glove’s creamy fingers over
rings, swelling leather,
and deeper still, into each valley
of my willing hand. In one
elegant thrust he palmed my hand, pressing
both sides of the glove to my wrist. Grazie,
mille grazie, I managed, but for what,
I wasn’t sure, and would not know until our fingers
first interlocked and I remembered that
moment in Italy and the true
weight of measurement and dimension, the sheer
wonderment of fit and sweet
bindings that tether us. |
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