AT THE OPERA
God is onstage, center, god is a she-hawk,
purple and magnificent. Orange curtains
lean open to the sides, great folds of fabric
slumping with their own weight.
The soprano has an entrance in Act II
she must announce by an offstage phrase
that begins high, on a G#. Her score is missing.
Standing in the wings, in red silk-satin shot through
with gold thread, she breathes to her diaphragm
and does not know when to sing.
Velvet theatre seats, large audience
indistinct in a low sepia light.
Near the back of the auditorium,
in the cheap seats under the balcony,
a woman rifles through her bag.
She has lost a handful of cash.
She searches the pockets of her coat,
feels gloves, ticket stubs, mastercard receipts.
The performance has cost her everything,
she wants to pay attention.
In the pit, the strings beg "More urgency"
in open fifth runs, accelerando:
"This is the show that must go on."
Now the woman in the audience
finds gumwrappers, grit, a grocery list.
The soprano's throat tightens closed,
as if to weep. She resolves
to sing anyway, wrong or not.
God is a she-hawk, center stage,
and the woman in the back
cannot compose herself to attend.
¤ ¤ ¤
MILLENIUM BASH, SPIRITS PROVIDED
You are invited, you who began
a thousand years ago. Bring along
your old toothaches, if you wish,
and any folk remedies you can remember.
After cocktails and savouries,
some light entertainment: plagues
and rumors, an oil embargo,
the spread of the desert,
a record number of healthy babies.
Our guest list includes romantic love,
the calculus, fireworks, coffee,
an alphabet for the vernacular,
and neighbors on both sides
and across the street. Bring your friends,
or call me and I'll fax them this invitation.
We're all in this together. A reminder:
there's heavy traffic at peak hours of grief.
Allow time for parking.
¤ ¤ ¤
MILLENIUM FRENZY
Who is it? How is it? his hands stretch
from wisdom to injury. He is bulky, opaque,
I can't see his face. The coin of his head
covers the whole world, even bristling
(the way it does) with skyscrapers.
He stands in a bonfire, his chest is water.
He wields a metal pole, an iron signal flag,
yellow and rusting. It cuts into my left breast.
I am his equal at last. My right hand lifts
an orange stick figure off the tines
of a table fork, the other hand colors
a kindergarten crayola sun. I'm ankle deep
in blood from an old wound.
Just beside my head, a bell peals and peals.
Two fairy tale figures sail off in a little boat.
There are other stories here, but it rains
steadily. We are lucky to be indoors.
Over to one side, my husband checks his watch
with a resentful twist of shoulder.
It's already time for lunch and
we have not yet understood our dreams.
¤ ¤ ¤
TEMPUS INCOGNITUM OR
MRS CALENDAR PLANS PAST THE YEAR 2000
Smile firmly affixed -- she was Southern
to the end -- Mrs. Calendar took one more step
and we couldn't see her any longer.
It wasn't exactly dark on the other side
of the door facing, it was as though the medium
changed, from regular air and light
to something dense and invisible. Maybe
the senses to perceive it would change.
We wondered (that night over the low fat dinner
she'd thoughtfully left in tupperware containers
on the top shelf of the refrigerator) if the new senses
came along with the new ether, as soon as you
entered it, or if you had the capabilities
but had to develop them (the way a baby's
born with eyes but has to learn to see) or if
the notion of perception has any meaning there at all.
Gone she was, though, blazer, Mastercard,
wristwatch -- rushing the threshold as usual,
her dispatch for once inspiring our awe
instead of our disapproval. We wondered further
(drowsy after supper, on the den couches)
if she looked back at us even now,
slippery as a minnow, no hands to hold onto
that cute little purse she'd ordered from a catalogue
and if she needed a purse there at all?
"Maybe it's oblivion," one of us said. Another:
"Aw, I bet it's just more paperwork and errands,
with better office machines and home appliances."
On the refrigerator door, one of Mrs. Calendar's
yellow sticky-notes luffed up and down in the draft
from the AC: "Get yr bankchecks reprinted."
¤ ¤ ¤
MIDLIFE DREAMS
I've stopped dreaming about falling
and going to the bus stop naked
and taking the final exam
of a course I forgot to attend.
At my age, I dream of salt.
Of rocks and rockets, for some reason,
and babies left behind by their mothers.
Houses, my friends' and strangers',
and other things I'll tell you.
(My friend had a dream
I liked so much
I dreamed it myself.)
