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Sunday, January 10, 2016
Friday, January 8, 2016
Escort
Escort
In the baseboard gap between
your past and my future,
I wish you the citrus tease of magnolia
I unhinge its stubborn finger and
crack it with an explosion of
mourning doves, squeaky
wingflaps whispering the
top of my head I
did not expect this,
did not expect the pillow of your kiss,
the golden frame of hair under the
streetlight, the backward glance.
I rest my hand along mustard stucco arches,
your three-way turn, the flash of a
hand under glass, my arm rising in the air,
one half of a capital T.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Draeger's
Draeger’s
Oh, I know.
But you tire of the constant
yakety schmack, the
doo wah diddy and the hoi polloi.
Today you go where the
cheeses are lined up six deep,
where the cakes wear prom dresses and the
deli slices are as thin as a
politican’s promise.
Never mind that you don’t belong here.
Give your carcass to the poor some other time.
Buy a Chilean fruit that you can’t
afford and feel the currency
smoosh between your teeth.
If you board the elevator and
perform a time-step it will
take you to the miniature
golf course on the roof.
Place a hole-in-one in the
lobby of the Empire State Building and the
still-living Frank Sinatra will
sing a few bars of Summer Wind as he
hands you the most beautiful
lemon meringue pie in the world.
Because at Draeger’s,
we know what you
want before you do.From Michael J. Vaughn: Collected Poems
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Daughters of Cecilia
Daughters of Cecilia
Antonina Milyukova
No, no, I’ll not on this earth give my love to another.
Whatever part fate may decree, I am yours!
--Tatiana, Eugene Onegin
Terrified, man-mad Tchaikovsky. You send him a crush note as
he composes Onegin. He instructs you
to quell your feelings.
He writes Tatiana’s world-lifting Letter Scene, followed by
Onegin’s cruel dismissal, and feels guilty. So he marries you.
The honeymoon inspires Tchaikovsky to throw himself into the
Moscow River. The desired pneumonia fails to arrive.
He pays you off, at 6,000 rubles a year. You bear three children
by another man. Still, you refuse a divorce.
Sixteen years later, Tchaikovsky flirts with a duke’s
nephew. A court of colleagues orders him to kill himself. He does so.
You outlive him by twenty-four years, condemned by a court
of your own to hold on to the ancient tether, as it pulls you from one asylum
to the next.
I picture your face at the barred window, tracking the
silversnail path of the moon. Listening to the Pathetique, over and over.
Doria Manfredi
Continue to work at your picture till nightfall, and you
must promise that no pious lady, no fair or dusky beauty, shall be admitted
here on any pretext!
--Tosca
Summers in Torre del Lago, you wait to do your ironing in the cool of night. This is also when the
Maestro works, his cowboy opera ringing through the villa.
At break time, you find him in the garden, puffing on a
cigar, and share a brief talk. The Maestro is elegant, soft-spoken. It could be
that you look on him as a father (how you long for a father).
Elvira Puccini hears the voices beneath her window. Doria stays late to be near my husband. She
meets him in the garden for lovemaking. She fires you, spends the autumn
denouncing you as a slut. What’s worse, everyone believes her.
The Maestro sends a note, lamenting his wife’s behavior, but
seems incapable of stopping her. She finds you at Christmas day mass and
threatens to kill you.
Haunted and sick, you purchase a bottle of mercuric
chloride, a corrosive disinfectant, and swallow three tablets. The stomach
cramps begin immediately, followed by five days of riveting pain.
In your note, you ask for revenge on Elvira, and clemency
for Puccini, who has done nothing.
The gossips conclude that Doria has died of a botched
abortion. The authorities order an autopsy, to be conducted in the presence of
witnesses. The autopsy reveals that Doria was a virgin.
Renata Tebaldi
I’ll go alone and far as the echo from the churchbell.
There, amid the white snow; there, amid the clouds of gold – there where the
earth appears as but a recollection.
--La Wally
I drive the length of Oregon. The radio slaps me with a
four-word sentence. I stop at the Shakespeare festival, trekking the
Christmas-lit streets for a latte, rubbing a jigsaw piece between my fingers.
This grieving makes no sense. I don’t know you. Everything
you’ve given me is locked away on vinyl and aluminum. My loss is precisely
nothing.
But once, you took hold of my tangled hearing, and untied
the knots.
Jenny sits at the kitchen table, her eyes growing wide. You’ve never heard Tebaldi? She reaches
for the stereo: an impossibly broad soprano voice, constructed of butter, an
aircraft carrier tracing cadenzas like a speedboat.
She tells me you’re alive, residing in Italy. This does not
seem possible.
I have made no secret of my fixation. My friends will send
me condolences, as if I have lost a favorite aunt. I will read reports of you
at San Marino, breathing your last, one eye on the hills.
On the night of four
words, I scale the Siskiyous, strangely energized, the roadsides patching with
snow. My head fills with Catalani, Renata loosing her dovish triplets as she
climbs the white mountains, untethered.
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