And then quite a long time after I
had written that poem, I found myself
returning to the subject, which is
one of the surprising things I guess
that happens because here's sort of the rest of the story.
But I have to I think gloss the aquacade which
occurs in this poem and goes back
to the late 40s when they're a showman known as Billy Rose.
Maybe you've heard of Billy Rose.
Organize these noble maidens into synchronized swimming
performances, and they were billed as Billy Rose's aquacade
and they went their watery way from New York to Chicago,
et cetera, et cetera and performed
the sort of water ballet.
I guess that tells you everything you need to know.
This is sort of a women's lib poem I think,
I like to think it is.
It's called life's work.
Mother, my good girl I remember this old story.
You fresh out of the conservatory at 18
a bar specialist in a starched shirt waist begging permission
to go on tour with the nimble violinist you were never
to accompany.
And he flinging his music down, the rosin from his bow
flaking line by line like grace notes on the treble clef.
And my grandfather, that estimable man
I never met scrubbing your mouth with a handkerchief saying
no daughter of mine tearing loose the gold
locket you wore with no one's picture in it,
and the whole German house on 15th Street
at righteous white heat.
At 18 I chose to be a swimmer.
My long hair dripped through dinner onto the China plate,
my fingers wrinkled like son sweet yellow raisins
from the afternoon workout.
My mouth chewed, but I was doing laps.
I entered the water like a knife.
I was all muscle and seven doors a frog
on the turning board, king of the eels and the eels wife.
I swallowed and prayed to be allowed to join the aquacade.
And my perfect daddy who carried you off to elope
after the fingerboard snapped and the violinist
lost his case.
My daddy wearing gravy on his face
swore on the carrots and the boiled beef
that I would come to nothing, that I would come to grief.
Well, the firm old fathers are dead
and I didn't come to grief.
I came to words instead to tell the little tale that's left.
The mid nights of my childhood still go on.
The stairs speak again under your foot.
The heavy parlor door folds shut and Au clair de la
lune puckers from the obedient keys
plain as a schoolroom clock ticking.
And what I hear more clearly than WC's love song
is the dry after sound of your long nails clicking.