The Bittersweet Cruelty of a Rerun

The Bittersweet Cruelty of a Rerun

Gazebo Scene

Who cares that Liesl loves a blonde boy 
who sings to her of her own suppression 
as they shelter from the storm in a gazebo 
before he declares himself a Nazi in full?
Is the hope of happiness ever allowed
to meander past the glare of youth,
as in the summertime gaze of Danny Zuko
before he reenters the familiar territory
of learned leather and greased lightning?
My mother and I watch Meggie being watched 
from afar by the priest and remind each other 
in the end it turns out he sticks around,
for old age and all. My mother always squirms
at Bill tending his moths, the fluid horror
of gender—but for me, the more unsettling 
lurks inside the pull of Hannibal’s few minutes
of screen time, how his minor character
nonetheless propels our heroine to purpose,
powering those black basement breaths 
wherein she must understand survival,
reasoning quick and modest as the flutter
of wings upon a nape of exposed flesh—
This is the good part, I can still hear
my mother saying of manufactured thunder,
indulgent dance numbers, a set of teary 
eyes scanning the horizon with wistful 
romantic score draped like a sheer veil
over the truth. What’s on tonight?
I ask myself, reaching for the remote
to replay another story. Mood is only part 
of the whole picture this evening. 
The question loops back to what I want,
skipping over what I’ll look past to get it.

Dolce Far Niente

Joy betrays in easy ways, 
as when I wake early to find pistachio 
hidden inside a chosen pasticciotto 
and am brought to my knees 
before the sun finishes stretching 
out over Polignano a Mare. 
The others leave to tour caves 
along ancient shore, and I breathe 
behind the open window, sea air
billowing its huge single curtain, 
blood tapping the back of my throat. 
Sweet orange light swerves in and out 
of shadow. Fauvist floral tiles. 
The room’s much too large, 
its windows tall as temple doors 
drawn open. The ocean old enough 
to forget itself sifting upon its cliffs. 
I will never be able to leave, don’t know
how to call upon the gods present here. 
God of ragged rooftop and tinkling bell, 
god of umber brick and unmoored 
boat, god of blue paint flaking 
from patient hull, god 
of every immovable past tense.
Hours tick across the walls 
in quadrants of gold, darken 
like bruises. I am myself, no longer 
asleep. The others return
with a stranger, his shirt aglow
golden as a fleece upon his shoulder. 
They cannot comprehend 
that I, too, arrived here with plans 
to spend days like coins. Now no one 
has need for me to translate 
their commands. Half the fun is not 
understanding. Bass thrums 
in the room above, a chorus 
of mocking, Ma perche? Pear-kaayy! 
An old folktale ends this way.
The woman becomes moonbeam. 
Idle hands pretend to peel 
night back, reveal an honest dawn.