Fancy, and: Puberty, as Poem by Akhmatova, and: Velvet Revolution, and: Returning to West Berlin, 1987, and: Our Free Market Romance

Fancy

Those evenings when they dressed for an affair,    my parents were most beautiful, my father stiff,so sensitive to the strip of silk around his throat    that he barely moved, except to hold the doorfor my mother, and my mother's neck a naked    thing beneath her gown, the bow that rustledwhen she stood, like a satin orchid planted    near her skin. Her shoes were thin, sharp knives,making a sound I knew as fancy, click-clackclick-clack across the black and white foyer. They pinched her toes, she said, which was her way    of telling me that loveliness should hurt. Evenbefore she left, her hair loosened from its bun,    as though something in her wanted to escape.

    I never heard them coming home after the waltzand gin, ungloved, unfastened from the car,    his hand resting on the small secret of her back,her zipper finally splitting at the teeth. But I    imagined them speaking French or Polish at a party,holding the words so long inside their mouths    that language felt like infidelity, made me lookaway. Each morning my mother's velvet purse    wilted on a chair, empty of its midnight contents:ruby lipstick, tiny lake of a pocket mirror.    My father's white tie lay crumpled on the bed.The romance of objects—both their costumes    on hangers again, still clutching the scentof two bodies that bent, unbent inside of them.

Puberty, as Poem by Akhmatova

The scarcity of milk— that was me, and the queuefor a new pair of shoes.

I was the Russian verseof frozen feet, the worstwinter in memory.

I was snowfall left piledon New World Street. I wasthe boots that walked me black.

In the year of the longfreeze, other girls becamewarm countries, while I stayed

behind, watched the dark paradeof seasons, waiting forthat one intemperate thing.

Velvet Revolution

If she said I'm lonely,her words were a curtainover the dark of it.And so she barely spoke.

Better to hold the peach,not eating it, than feela pit against her teeth.Apricots, plums, cherries,

all fruit reduced to stone,like the mythologyof girls who discoverthe wound of growing up.

When she rubbed the new hair,there was a mutiny called sex, a violence likethe riot that she'd seen

on the nightly news—this pile and nap, this fur,this violet murmuringthat knocked awake the blood.

Returning to West Berlin, 1987

Like meeting a girl we haven't seen in years,    who filled out while we were gone, becameall va-va-voom, discovered see-through    tops, high heels, and fishnet hose. She's learnedto smoke clove cigarettes, to guzzle beers    in swanky bars. She has a phony nameon her fake ID. Her voice sounds different too—    bittersweet chocolate and something burned.

Past Checkpoint Charlie and the Wall, each street    seems brighter now, more noise and neon inthe shops, a kind of manufactured din.    And yet at night we dream of slick concrete,spray paint like lipstick kissing West Berlin,    the glossy mouth, the miniskirt, the skin.

Our Free Market Romance

        is your debit cardinside the ATM of me        is dollars spitting from a slotthe paper slap            of a receiptis you the shopping bag        and me the whisperof paisley patterned silk        is beaucoup buckscashmere to the touch        is your new-car smellmy luxury of leather seats            is cruise controlis interest free        is the sticky spotwhere price tags used to be            is costume jewelryis the big box store        the box of plastic thingsthat cost five cents            is Made in Chinabed sheets from Peru        is china platesis transport to the States        is the yield our bodiescan produce            is our bargainbasement selves        is the knotted pairof us like shoes        is the pair of skinny jeansour laissez-faire...