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Karen Kovacik Page 2 In the Letter R
The wish to postpone arrival
the desire to be lost
begins in a wild box of
crayons
when the child writes
R A I N
in her drugstore
calendar
and out the window
real silver is falling
and the word on the page
is more than the hinge
and hook
of pressure on wax
the letters shooting
open like parasols
or maples in slow motion
the calendar pages
March April May
dissolving into a city
the child has not yet
seen
but she can smell its
wet wool
its boulevards of neon
and chocolate
the hexagons of sidewalk
that invite her in
and though her mother is
cooking
veal pocket and green
beans
maraschino tapioca for
dessert
the child has booked a
room
for the evening
in the letter R
where from its window
she watches the bracelet
of lights
sway along the river
and beneath her sloping
ceiling
beneath the roof of
staccato rain
she undresses whole
sentences
like paper dolls
or the sheet music for
“Volga Boatman”
each letter like a piano
key
which is not pure sound
not the world
but a button she can
press
to make the world appear
turning TANG into TANGO
RIG into RIGOR
and though she can’t
foresee it
out of a tunnel of
reverses
she will aim for the
dazzle
of what her English will
allow
its boroughs now her
boroughs
with their intricate
streets
its river the one she
will fish in
beads of rain lighting
the way overhead
Woman at Streetcar Stop
St.
Charles Line, New Orleans
Gone are the feathered
masks of Mardi Gras,
gone, too, the Krewe of
Zulu tossing coconuts
to revelers. It’s June,
unending month of sweat
which glues her hair
like chicken down
to her
forgotten
neck. Her shirtwaist—shirred
brown jersey
knit—conceals a bladder pad
and crinkly arms. She’s
maybe sixty-five,
her butt a flabby saddle
no one wants
to grab. Twenty years
before, I’ll bet
her swell of ass
commanded stares,
and earlier, those heavy
hips shook babies free.
So what if assholes call
her “hag” or “crone.”
I’m forty-four. To me,
she’s harbinger,
wherever she’s headed:
grocery store or HMO
or church named for the
saint
who sang Last Rites to
victims of the plague.
I’m off to tour the
Cities of the Dead,
but first I watch her
haul herself aboard
the trolley car, calves
sculpted still, purse smashed
against her chest. I’d
guess she’s sixty-five.
And when some
stranger offers her his seat,
she settles in to ride
and ride.
© Copyright,
Karen Kovacik. |