At the Party, and: Carefully

At the Party

When I was six I went to bed early,but after an hour I’d sit up screaming—

I couldn’t wake no matter what my parents did.They tried talking, shaking, slapping,

they took turns carrying meas though I was being led to safety.

And very slowly I’d come back.What the screaming was I can’t remember.

The doctor used the term night terrorsand told my parents to let me stay up later.

I’m not sure why, but the nightmares stopped;for a long time I forgot they happened.

Then one night, I was in the kitchenfor a glass of juice; in the next room

I could hear my mother talking in her sleep.She was chewing on words she didn’t like.

But when I heard, very softly, laughter—she sounded so much younger,

like someone not yet married.And I pictured her—her dream

where she’s at a party:drink in one hand, cigarette in the other

as she makes her way across a crowded room.And there’s the man she noticed earlier—

he’s about her age;he sees her; he opens his mouth to speak.

Then they both hear that foolish soundwhen a glass shatters on the floor,

and they know whoever let it fallis the uninvited guest who’s asked to leave.

Carefully

Had I never been born, the set of cocktail glasseswith six Peter Arno cartoons in black & goldwould have been displayed behind our bar

instead of hid away in my parents’ bedroom closetand never used. At least once a week my motherreminded me I was prone to little accidents

involving slow-witted lamps, thoughtless vases,or coffee mugs mysteriously filled with milk;each continued falling, even though I held my breath.

And I was certain I understood the word racy,knowing it had something to do with expensive cars,and women passengers, and illegal high speeds.

I remember Peter Arno from a photographwhen he was young & handsome and stayed up lateand still wanted to be out with friends;

when he posed in his studio in evening clothes,looking as if a fresh white shirt, opera pumpsand a fistful of brushes could only inspire him.

My father remembered Arno from a bookhe carried across France in ’44, and losta page or two at a time. He could tell you

the name of every village he stayed in,and which Arno cartoons ended upon the backside of a privy door.

But in my memory, and perhaps his,the number of French villages always seemedto equal the number of cocktail glasses:

a wedding gift I knew by heart,and in great secrecy took down from the closetnot once but many times, and examined them

for as long as I dared, then carefully put each glassback in its original and undisputed place;put them back, always, while holding my breath.