Gary Maggio

Waiting to eat

Before Thanksgiving turkey and stuffed cabbage,

Challah and rice pudding,

Yams, and peas with pearl onions,

Listening in New Brunswick to Uncle Julius’ cackles—

Rising like an angry cat above voices in the kitchen—

Clash with Doris the maid’s heavy white shoes in the hallway

And the coughing and laughing of older cousins

The clacks and bumps of the bumper pool game

Somewhere down below,

Cousin Melanie and I are expected to nap

Under Auntie Gertie’s smothering blankets

With the bedroom ceiling’s afternoon sun

Tic-tac-toe-ing through Venetian blinds.

Melanie, a pillow over her head,

Curls her knees, in the swell of the bed,

Her back to mine, beneath the feathery comforter,

Pulls her pajamas down below her thighs,

Settles, nestles against me,

Breathes in, breathes out,

and so we wait.

Downstage Right

Two-thirds of the way through the rehearsal schedule,

I found my father. He was on the stage, seated in a downstage chair.

It was so unlike him, not to have his feet up, or otherwise

To have his back bent over a garden spade or a vise grip.

In a bathrobe, his knees were thin, his bare arms draped

In a curl over the arms of the chair, his fingers gripping,

Not the massive calloused claws of power I remembered

So well, from, well, forever. He sat ever sweetly,

His breath even and his eyes seeing everything in front of him.

I had never realized that he too was an actor, but here he was,

Being someone he was not, a fantastic transformation,

And most remarkable, so still, so available,

Helping me to develop my character, to prepare my moment

On stage.

  

Borderland

If you had a crystal ball and could see deep-

Ly through the white light just before you

Died there it would be—your true life, stories

You hadn’t realized you’d sold, children

You didn’t know were happy, a mother who

Could really sing, a playful father with

Calm eyes, you were fluent in eastern

Languages, your form on the dance floor

Graceful and full of power, you were power-

Ful and had no needs, weren’t mindful, only

Smiles and breaths and hands that held

And aches that reminded you only that

You’d lived well.

CP

Gary Maggio is out there somewhere, writing.