Municipii Angelorum
LINDA ANN LOSCHIAVO
We’re sitting, waiting for M-G-M Grand Air --
In sunglasses, that one’s my father -- but
He has grown into twins: the man who took me
On piggyback rides, named the great stars in
The heavens, christened dustballs under my
Bed, making light of the dark, hugger
I called dear Daddy, even when he left, went
Out West to write. But shading reptile eyes:
Another guy my mother has warned me
About, who swears by bio-rhythms, angles
Development deals, praises re-hab leaders --
“Poor women to prey on,” sniffs my aunt, or pray with
Perhaps, since hugs have gotten thinner.
Last week, his “What do you want?” meant for dinner;
What I want is to skip again, a hand
On either side. I’m tired hearing
Of riots, seeing goat cheese on food, of
Not knowing who’s slept in my bed. His old
Apartment’s nicer. Here the police cruise
All the time in “a black and normal” and
His ladies seem so wild, like Angel who’s
Too skinny (though not “on meth” anymore) or
Beth, needing a white mouse because she keeps
This snake. It’s just like “Casablanca” -- where
No one was told the end and acted in real
Suspense -- and Dad must think he’s Bogey: all
I hear is “kid.” “What’s her sign? “Virgo, aren’t
You, kid?” What’s a grown woman doing with
A python -- it’s called Gemini -- and who cares
If Cher’s at the next table? Really, what
Is that? I care that he’s a writer with
No paper in the house; I didn’t see
A ribbon, but too many empties on
His desk. I wish he’d point at Pegasus’s
Bright neck without that smell on his breath. Why can’t
We both walk through that gate? Instead he keeps
His shades on, says, “Don’t mention Gemini.”
