Everything That Rises Must Converge

Felt like that old woman in the story by Flannery O'Connor today as I browsed Circle Thrift and found myself followed by two little African-American kids--one was about three (the boy) and the other was maybe 6 (the girl). They were with their grandma and something I said to them made them think they could talk to me and then the little girl came asked me if I could help her look at some baby clothes. She said she had two dolls and wanted to buy booties for one of them. I took the box off the shelf and we went through it and she said, But I can't buy this. I only have two dollars. I said, Well, go ask your grandma if it's okay if I give you a dollar. She went over and asked the silent older woman who was browsing through the kitchen stuff and seemed utterly unconnected to the children. I didn't want to be insulting, I didn't want to be like, Oh, you poor li'l Negro chillren, here you go, here's a penny! At the same time, what's a dollar to me? So, the little girl went to ask her grandma if it was okay if this strange white person gave her a dollar and then she returned to me and said, She won't answer me. I surreptitiously slipped her and her brother 4 quarters each and tried to say something life changing to them like, When you're all grown up and you meet someone who needs something, be sure to give them a fucking quarter. Then I waited for the grandma to become indignant and hit me with her pocketbook. She did not. I don't know if the little girl got the booties she wanted or if the little boy got the puzzle book, but it was strange. If they had been white, would I have thought to offer them money or been so accepting of their asking? Maybe not.



In any case, I bought a very fuscia Christmas tree and also a silver wreath with pink. blue and yellow lights that I like very much.

I am listening to Prairie Home Companion (please see previous post where listening to Garrison Keillor gives me an unpleasant tickle up my spine due to his nasalness). Billy Collins is on the program, reading his poetry. I met Billy Collins when I was a student at Penn State. He's an older man with that halo type monk hair cut. He is an excellent poet and a good reader and I was enamored because even though I had never heard of him before, I knew he was famous and a good writer. He drank too much whiskey and propositioned me, only after having been rejected by this other girl, Molly, can't remember her last name, just that she was very sweet and boring and had a gigantic head. I think I overheard him saying that she had the face of an angel. I am not sure if he told me the same, but he pretended to have noticed me in the audience while he was reading. He wrote his hotel number in red colored pencil on a napkin, inviting me to visit him later so that perhaps I could inspire a new line of Victoria's Secret poetry. I was flattered but did not for a second consider taking him up on it, because he had a lot of nostril hair and was older and was drunk.

"Victoria's Secret," by B Collins

The one in the upper-left-hand corner

is giving me a look that says

I know you are here

and I have nothing better to do

for the remainder of human time

than return your persistent but engaging stare.

She is wearing a deeply scalloped

flame-stitch halter top

with padded push-up styling

and easy side-zip tap pants.

The one on the facing page, however,

who looks at me over her bare shoulder,

cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.

You have interrupted me,

she seems to be saying,

with your coughing and your loud music.

Now please leave me alone;

let me finish whatever it was I was doing

in my organza-trimmed

whisper weight camisole with

keyhole closure and point d'esprit mesh back.

I wet my thumb and flip the page.

Here, the one who happens to be reclining

in a satin and lace merry widow

with an inset lace-up front,

decorated underwire cups and bodice

with lace ruffles along the bottomand hook-and-eye closure in the back,

is wearing a slightly contorted expression,

her head thrust back, mouth partially open,

a confusing mixture of pain and surprise

as if she had stepped on a tack

just as I was breaking down

her bedroom door with my shoulder.

Nor does the one directly beneath her

looking particularly happy to see me.

She is arching one eyebrow slightly

as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing

but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit

with a low sweetheart neckline

featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.

Do you have a problem with that?!

The one on the far right is easier to take,

her eyes half-closed

as if she were listening to a medley

of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.

Soon she will drop off to sleep,

her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,

and later she will wake up in her

Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,

deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,

and concealed back zip and vent.

But opposite her,

stretched out catlike on a couch

in the warm glow of a paneled library,

is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,

her face tipped up, exposing

her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.

Go ahead, her expression tells me,

take off my satin charmeuse gown

with a sheer, jacquard bodice

decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.

Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.

What do I care, her eyes say, we're all going to hell anyway.

I have other mail to open,

but I cannot help noticing her neighbor

whose eyes are downcast,

her head ever so demurely bowed to the side

as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio

when he painted "The Madonna of St. Jerome,"

only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma

that afternoon, she had to remove

the traditional blue robe

and pose there in his studio

in a beautifully shaped satin teddy

with an embossed V-front,

princess seaming to mold the bodice,

and puckered knit detail.

And occupying the whole facing page

is one who displays that expression

we have come to associate with photographic beauty.

Yes, she is pouting about something,

all lower lip and cheekbone.

Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled

out of its cone onto the parquet floor.

Perhaps she has been waiting all day

for a new sofa to be delivered,

waiting all day in stretch lace hipster

with lattice edging, satin frog closures,

velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,

flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps

available in black, champagne, almond,

cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha, peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.

It is, of course, impossible to say,

impossible to know what she is thinking,

why her mouth is the shape of petulance.

But this is already too much.

Who has the time to linger on these delicate

lures, these once unmentionable things?

Life is rushing by like a mad, swollen river.

One minute roses are opening in the garden

and the next, snow is flying past my window.

Plus the phone is ringing.

The dog is whining at the door,

Rain is beating on the roof.

And as always there is a list of things I have to do

before the night descends, black and silky,

and the dark hours begin to hurtle by,

before the little doors of the body swing shut

and I ride to sleep, my closed eyes

still burning from all the glossy lights of day.

I most certainly have gotten some of the line breaks wrong, but you get the idea. I wish I could find one of my poems, but they are lost somewhere, perhaps under the sofa with a sock I have also forgotten.