Poetry in America

The Girl in the Backseat Returns to Pittsburgh

57 the girl in the backseat returns to pittsburgh Now I see the statue at the traffic circle is not a talk between Satan and some poor lady who doesn’t know her dress has fallen past her waist. Lyre in one hand, the other waves witlessly in the wind as her breasts float for all the world to see; he doesn’t care, too busy leering at the girl in the backseat who hates his lips and curly hair, gumdrop horns, and those horrible hooves stuck on the ends of his legs. The clammy glass rooms at Phipps Conservatory make the girl woozy in her winter coat, studying the textures of tropical tree trunks. Only the chrysanthemums’ acrid scent clears her head. An ancient docent intones, It is the dark that makes them bloom. Relentless budding forces yellow mums huge and round as a girl’s head, so heavy their stems must be tied to sticks. Where the mills along 376 used to shoot lavender flames is only sky and water now. I can’t breathe, driving through the Squirrel Hill Tunnel, until I remember the balloon cheeks of the girl in the backseat, who always sucked and held her breath at times like this. But it’s great to breathe, 58 even in tunnels. Great to sit up front and drive my own Chevrolet. Great to be able to read the statue’s inscription after all these years: A Song to Nature. Pan the earth god answers to the harmony and magic tones sung to the lyre by sweet humanity. Amazing to finally see humanity figured as a careless woman, singing; great to see Earth as a goaty man, such a relief to find this bald fact cast in bronze: the woman must be immodest—and never seem to mind at all— if she wants to hear Pan answer her song. ...