The Literary Review
To Gretchen, My Love, My Brown Chevy Chevette
When first we met, you were brand new with beige seats and a hatchback to fit all my stuff. The 8-track cassette deck I placed on your console, too expensive from the dealership, made us jump. You were my sports econo car slim enough to fit in small spaces, affordable, devoted, perfect for the daily commute to college. Who knew we would move to Syracuse?
I transferred in my second year and you graduated to a real roadster. The hills were long and steep, the snow and ice unmanageable but we weathered through. You liked the chains I put on your tires, they made you look tough, and when your starter was stubborn my friend Billy pushed us up the highest hill, racing down forcing air into your chambers, yanking the clutch as you came roaring back to life while I screamed with delight. Billy said you were a good car. We believed him.
Later, you and I moved to different states, got two speeding tickets, but no points, maybe that wasn’t a thing back then, and after I finished school we drove cross-country to Colorado, back-and-forth to Maryland back-and-forth to DC, wherever the wind would carry us. We were a pair of no-frills adventurers. We even made believe you were a stick shift, not a just lowly automatic, making vroom vroom sounds.
When we drove back to NYC after picking up my guy in Syracuse, someone broke into you and stole everything except the 8-track and left a thank you note. All my belongings gone but at least they left you. Your untimely demise came two years later. An unexpected joyride left you at the bottom of the Hudson, sunk, gasless, probably not good enough for parts. Broke my heart. The 8-track buried with you along with all my good tools.
Published in Three Tables; Laura Boss Class Chapbook/Anthology, 2019.
Them Kids
They had names like Joey, Josephina, Angela,
Tina, Tony, and Gino, names ending in vowels.
Mine ended in a vowel too, the wrong kind,
not an A, O, Y but an I. My best friend,
Karen didn’t have a vowel at the end of her name.
We sat together behind St. Rocco’s in deep, dark
shadows along the basketball court and watched
boys shoot baskets in moonlight—
girls not allowed, unless the boys weren’t there.
Friends, enemies, lovers, smoked cigarettes, joints,
passed around dark brown liquor, winced as fire
slinked down our throats. Josephine would steal
homemade wine to share, hidden under her shirt.
Tony got beaten for being out, Angie’s drunken
father came looking for his kid, booming
her name as he barreled down the street.
We’d scatter into bushes, crawl behind cars
and when they were gone, the coast clear
we howled at the moon, begging forgiveness
from god for all the sins we were about to commit.
Tuna on Toast
When I open a can of tuna, the sound and smell
triggers the cats to dash into the kitchen
thinking it is for them. Well, that’s not good.
The can, now upside down in a white bowl, the familiar
click of the spoon on dish makes them cry louder.
I add non-mayo, mayo into the bowl, smash it,
drop a tablespoon onto rye toast, it looks unappetizing.
I am bored with the taste, eat it anyway,
sometimes without bread, worry about mercury content
convince myself that the food is health.
It does not resemble tuna steaks purchased
at the fish counter, this impoverished
processed cousin is the penultimate emergency lunch
mom would set out along with egg salad,
lettuce, tomato, bread and coffee. Lunch served.
At New York diners I order tuna on rye toast.
The waiter yells, tuna whiskey down,
My Aunt Jean mixes chopped celery and onions,
shocked by combinations of flavors
It’s what your uncle likes, she says proudly.
My family teach me how to make proper
tuna ala panino al tonno on ciabatta
tossed with parsley, olive oil, garlic, capers,
lemon, salt and pepper that tickles my appetite
topped with sliced boiled eggs and green olives.
Zesty, savory, sensazionale flavors blend on the tongue
but like mi famiglia, I revert to the Italiano-Americano
tuna with mayo on toast. Twice I buy an expensive
tonno sott’olio, delizioso except tuna
is supposed to be easy and cheap.
The cats continue to yell. I have to give them a snack
to eat in peace. I promise to treat myself
to real tonno, experiment one more time.
Aggiungi sapore alla vita
Witness to a Passing
The bells ring throughout the campus, the nuns
In sync and all at once gather, lament
Her passing, in step from their homes solemn
Unhurried movements, slowed, measured, patient
These women know this march’s final journey
On a sun-lit morning, come to attend
Assist as medics carry the body
Women in nun’s garb and not, pray to send
Her soul onto a holy, well-known place
The ambulance lights swirl without sound
Each of their movements filled with beauty and grace
And with prayer chant, sing, intone and surround
Send with love, one stop from this existence
Into heaven filled with joy and silence.
The Beginning of a Love Story
That first time there is a tangled
comprehensible look between them.
Her cheeks, not rosy, the color of faded
dead leaves, the rush of blood
escaping her complexion
as she meets him, her other half
he, in blue jeans and faded t-shirt.
Not what she expected.
He wants to be smooth
instead stumbles on words
uncool and real as he meets her, his soul mate
surprisingly euphoric.
She invites him to a party, he accepts.
Not what he expected.
He, in his button-down shirt,
untucked, wanders
asks for directions from a stranger and
walks off promptly in the wrong direction.
She repeatedly checks the ringer
to see if it works and stations herself
near the door to see if he has arrived.
He, realizing his mistake
rights himself and wonders
if a camel can travel thirty miles a day
and carry three hundred pounds without
taking a break does he have the stamina
to find her house without stopping?
He is thinking of her, his heart beats faster
She gets that peculiar itchiness on her upper lip
when she gets nervous
grabs a beer out of the fridge
and presses the cool glass against her mouth.
The doorbell rings, her roommate answers
they see each other greet and stutter.
A strange desire has taken the place
Already worried they will lose this
they cocoon in her space.
just the two of them, the sound of people
lessens and music heightens
as they stand together
in the crowded living room.
And as long as these moments last
on a grand cosmological scale
it is merely a blip in time
an indescribable blip
that could carry them a lifetime.