42opus
is an online magazine of the literary arts.
25 April 2005 | Vol. 5, No. 1
Workers in Love
1.
I had three husbands, two of them ghosts.
The last hocked Orange Crush at a crash
in Clear Lake. Maria Elena Holly sported
black bobby sox and wept over a rib bone
interred at the Surf Ballroom. There remains
Ritchie Valens. Backcomb the widow's veil,
a scrim of downbeats and some Aqua Net.
Flat, everything flat. The lake with white
foam, the white wicker honeymoon suite,
the red lipstick worn into pink. We strolled
on the imported beach, our shoes a byproduct
of wreck. Woody might call love flotsam.
I call it next. I've hummed about falling—
rock sentimentalities, lullabies.
2.
Love did not exist before we moved
into the observatory. Stars are remote
as bolted letters, volcanoes. Sometimes
Woody eyes me over his unhappy salad
and murmurs of the statistical probability.
We are like criminals searching for paperclips.
Who could know that Cosmos 1953 would pass
under Cassiopeia in a memorable configuration?
How else might one catch a sustained glint?
The night was clear, my eyes maladapted.
I had never seen Mir so bright. Written
like parting, coupling becomes a pyrrhic victory.
Note rock songs. Note our heavenly hosts.
N