by Anette Gagliardi
His Dying
He died on a Tuesday,
his body so full of morphine he was hallucinating
dancing elephants on the ceiling and singing
“Buffalo Gals won’t you Come Out Tonight” with
the wreck of a voice, reduced from his fine baritone
to a toad’s croak in September’s twilight.
He suffered long with prostate cancer;
a fitting malady, in my opinion,
for his sins of the flesh -
sins visited upon my flesh and the flesh
of his various granddaughters.
Since he was so perverse in his abuse,
I wanted the revenge of a devastation
upon his body, such as the
ravage he had inflicted
upon mine.
When I saw him lying there
in that casket, I knew he could
no longer hurt me.
Still, I stood at the doorway not able
to go in; seeing him from across the room,
waiting for his death to sink in;
to be reality for me. Waiting
for his corpse to sit up and leer
at me one last time.
Mom put her hand on my back and
escorted me into the room. I flung
myself over his body and wept
like my life was over.
I thought the rage and the self-loathing
would leave, the memory of his touch
and his smell would dissipate, I though
life would become a fairy tale.
Pink Flamingos
Pink, ceramic Flamingos
one-leg tucked up underneath their body.
Standing in a light-green-ceramic-
marsh, Flamingos.
One flamingo had been glued tightly
to each of three picture window sills,
each centered on a sill — stuck
secure, in mute dismay.
The three of us, those flamingos.
Her, holding fast to her blind ignorance,
choosing not to know.
He intent in his lusting after
— his perversions.
Me — bound by secrecy and emotions;
too tightly wrapped to let go.
In mute dismay, we stuck.
The three of us making
a clenched little flock of flamingos
pink with the embarrassment of it all,
yet unable to move from our appointed positions.
Stuck fast.
A ceramic Flamingo —
pinned with one arm
protecting breasts, standing
on one leg, defending
my body with that one puny
appendage;
defending my space.
Standing apart and
alone.
I, the ceramic flamingo
stuck with one arm
protecting breasts, standing
on one leg, defending
my body with that one puny
appendage; defending my space;
standing apart and
alone always, always alone.
A Cellular Memory
He spoke to me and I
felt his words
on the back of my neck
lighter than a duck’s pinfeather,
yet I dared not look at him.
He sat closer than I was comfortable
yet I could not move away;
my heart beating a tympanic vibration -
an emblem of mortality
which left me breathless.
The sun shrouded in afternoon clouds,
a small disc of celestial music,
was nothing but mute gospel.
There was no savior watching
over me and no forgiveness
for the sin of being available.
His transgressions condemned me
to this purgatory by means never
adequately explained.
The stain of sin, visited upon
and within
don’t begin to compensate
nor allow me to relate
to new lovers, or loves -
I dance with an invisible partner
like the awkward man who is silent
when told he is loved -
an obtuse refusal to understand.