Truck

4 Poems by Grace Cavalieri

Felicia Chance

In Paris, with one hour to spend, I went back to the courtyard to say goodbye. The beautiful woman in white flew into my arms saying I was your student in Italy two years ago. Her name, she said, was Felicia. Memory guessed at the last name and was right. Chance. It was Chance, a woman whose poetry I remembered as flummery of odd line lengths. I had only time to share a hot chocolate, please no poetry longuer, I thought. But I was so tired from teaching and traveling and she, being French, could get me a room above the restaurant. It was the kind with children’s p.j.’s left hastily under the bed, a cigar stub, a broken runcible and food cartons stashed on the side. Assignations of all kinds must happen here, but as I said, I was so tired of traveling, When I woke from my rest the plane was gone and so were my belongings. My purse was wide open. Instead of my wallet, keys and glasses were wads of French papers. I asked Felicia if I could borrow her cell phone. I stumbled to the street to get help. My father was home waiting. If I could get a flight, any flight, I’d go by way of Alaska (green conifers cooling my mind.) It was a busy Paris corner, I could not speak the language, the policeman was crossing traffic and would not respond, his mastiff growled and snapped, and Felicia, the outlier, the poetaster, was gone without a worry in the world.

At Jan's Funeral

Because of Jan I dyed my hair red and asked her family if they liked it.

True, it spiked at first but after I washed it, it flowed and the color matched hers. Her mother kissed me on the mouth. Although wet, it was the first sign of approbation. Jan’s brother, the one with the cane, pretended horror although red hair made my eyes light brown and not so intense. It was the least I could do. I told them dying was just putting things back where they belong. This is the self-same mother who sent me home crying after Mass for chanting “Poor Aunt Baloney” like the Latin. Maybe she likes me now I thought. Or is it what the newscast would call simply speculation.

(Appeared in ocho/miPOesias)

A Baby! And A Dog!

Bringing a baby to the movie is one thing/ but I should never have brought the German shepherd. / Always responsibilities like this/ And these creatures are not even mine./ They do not remotely belong to me/Well, we might be distantly  related/ alright/but always the question:/Do I hold the baby on my lap or let her try to sit up on the chair? /At least the dog had some savvy./ He found a way to relieve himself when the doors were opened./ In the darkened house/after everyone has left/ here I am./ The picture is over/the blue light dimmed/ and we have to put on our shoes./ I do not dare look down. /How can I take my eyes off one, / then the other? /I want to be helpful,/ but this kind of love has got to be stopped.

Quelly Gets Released

Quelly thought maybe the gift of gratitude

was a heart shaped pillow covered with

cat faces. Because

she had such a pillow

and was grateful for the gift, It was

                   made for her by an inmate,

or a nurse or a warden. They’re all so alike-

given to her right before she left the

                     prison or the hospital -

they are so alike.

She’d gotten along there

fine, very fine,

                    once she found

all you had to  do to get along

was tell people all you problems.

Oh there were fights at first,

          people keeping windows

          open so their radios would attack you;

          others arguing when they were wrong

                       just to argue; all

treated you like you’re a sharp knife

no one could hold.

                       Best not to think of

that now.

              Quelly walked down the street.

              She walked free. Maybe not good

for her, all this right now.

              Unhorsed, careless with time -

Nothing she owned to her name but her name.

              The cold feeling came on her.

She couldn’t do anything.

 

              She always got drowsy about that.

Where was she going?
Where could she stay?

When she told the nurse she didn’t

                         have anywhere to go

nurse said she could live elsewhere.

             Elsewhere. Hands tightened

on her purse.

Once when the man with

baggy striped pajama pants

flirted, nurse said to get along

with people. What do I do when he looks at

                          oatmeal and says it is egg?

Go along with it, nurse said.

                           Being quiet felt like

                           giving more than she got

but the day she left she saw him tugging at his drawstring. Quelly

shouted in through the window

              Extravagant   thrill seeker   fickle   liar   fiery  pickle -penis

He could put on more after-shave

lotion, oh yes, but he couldn’t

get rid of those words in a

                hurry. Then she waved

Goodbye.

“You’re quite a dish” he called after her.

                Oh fire that burns

                face that cries

                feet that walk. Maybe she should have stayed

safe inside instead of looking for that elsewhere

they talk about.

                 She had all the toilet paper

                 she could use there. Even more.

Quelly liked her given name. “ Quell.”

It was what her mother wanted to

do with her fears

so she’d named her first born that.

                  The “y” she threw in extra.

Quelly thought such a different name

could make a body feel different,

somewhat like a glint of silver

around her no one else had.

The store window sign said

“Sassy Scissors.” Maybe a haircut

would perk her up. No she wouldn’t

be welcome at the end without paying.

Oh scare talk, that’s all her thoughts

were. Fiddle faddle, the nurse called them.

                Night was wearing the day thin

now – sides of buildings leaning in

as if they knew her.

                Voices were going wider apart

as she walked the street.

                 Soon winter would come up behind

the street and where would she go then,

cold, dark, leaving no room for her.

                  She walked back to Sassy’s and

                                   opened the door.

There are few people

In the world who’ll

cast a line to someone

they don’t even know

                  but Sassy looked at all

people as if she

first discovered them.

Once a long time ago, when Quelly

lived on the street

Sassy gave Quelly half her sandwich.

                

                  Looking up at the

dark corridor, Sassy steadied Quell

up the narrow way –toward

a lightened hall,

                   up the long uncertain way.

        They held the banister tight

up to room 2B, Sassy’s place.

You see, Sass said later

I figure most people will

take everything you have

so I give it to them first.

Pass the ketchup please.

                  

                     This was pleasant.

Quelly would always remember this

         and tried to memorize everything  

she saw.

         Nothing could belong to

         her now except in memory

         so now was the time to take it in.

Outside the trees were insulting.

Inside the nice lady talked

of how most people were

miserable low down miserable creatures

at first

          but it had nothing to do with them.

Quelly liked the way she talked

           and took back the ketchup

            so she could be asked

                        for it again.

                           

Sassy went on. It’s like if I think

            I look like my Aunt Bernice

            and I don’t like the way she looks,

            well, whose fault is that?

                         Not hers.

Quelly thought she understood.

She liked mysteries and it’s

the place where she understood

things best – where there were

no answers.

                          The answers always confused

                          her. They never matched

                          up with what was asked.

Sassy fixed up the couch

with a hand crocheted

            cover and a hard brocade pillow

but Quelly’s eyes were shining

and she knew she’d sleep just

fine.

             Especially since Sassy Scissors

was reading out of the book over her :

             Enter through the narrow gate. For

             wide is the gate and broad is the road

             that leads to destruction, and many enter

             through it. But small is the gate and narrow

             the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.

Quelly look up at Sassy’s sweet, wide

face. “My mother was like me. She had

No plans either. No hope is what she had.”

              Well, that’s something, Sass said.

What have you stuffed your head

with, then?

                Oh I think about the five and ten

cent store when I was a child.

It’s there, you know. In your

mind, nothing is dead. Even

Grey’s restaurant is still there.

Well, Kittykat, Sass said to Quell.

We got to get you to

run after something. Some thing.

Anything you can love.

What could that be, Quelly thought,

as she fell through the balance

of sleep.

                  What is the individual story

                  told by the individual person

                  worth? Who wants it anyway.

                  Well, what would everything 

                  be without it. Not quite

                  everything, at all, she purred.

…Quelly dreaming of Grey’s with its

hot roast pork sandwich,

Sassy looking out the window…

It is best we don’t think

                 to call this anything,

this journey of appetites, sleep,

window, Grey’s…

Quelly, in the mornings , wanted to holler

for help but today she saw

                 all the fragments as one

                 big piece of room, ceiling

– the wall, top of

the door – edge of bed- coming ogether

and Sassy in the kitchen

                   in a kimono like a Buddhist

                   frying bacon              .

Quell’s stiff arms were folded

across her chest, for protection,

hands one upon the other

                   wondering what could

                   happen next.

She wanted vanilla ice cream

but too polite to ask.

Today was Sunday and

Sass was telling , over eating their eggs,

how she left her old man –

how he gave a party in their

house and didn’t even invite her and

when she asked about it, he

said he needed a house to

give a party in, and then

she went in the living room and

he had a bathrobe on – and that was all -

and girls there                so she left.

Quell could understand.

Because she’d left things

                   far better than that.     

Choice. It’s all about choice.

                 

Sassy didn’t know what to

do with her. Couldn’t teach Quell

to cut hair. Scizzors are dangerous.

                     Quelly said “I’ve never murdered

                                  anyone.”
Yes, but there’ always a first time.

                      They nodded. Yes, that’s true.

Maybe Quell could sweep for

Sassy.

               They thought on that awhile.

               And Sassy finally spoke:

                        Nothing can kill love in

              me. People can try but

 that’s what I was put on earth to do.

               Both were a little embarrassed by that.

               (But what the hell, Sass thought.)

Sassy wanted to know how it felt

in the loony bin.

A good question worth answering.

Well, Quell said. It’s like you really

like the past because it’s all yours

and then they break the balloon

and take it away and so everyday

there’s a new sadness –

A new balloon breaks.

I hate that, Sassy agreed.

And they were nice to everybody but me.

                  That’s how I knew I was special.

Sassy wondered about that

But didn’t know what to ask.

So I planned my escape

but when I got on the outside there was

nothing there. It’s pretty with the trees

but no one is there. I’m not as 

                    happy as I thought I’d be.

Christ, I wish you could cut hair,

                     Sassy said, buttering her toast again.

Contrariness. That’s all I’ve had, Quelly

said.

                     Sassy assured her she could

                     think about the past all she

                     wanted – safe here and

                     no one to stop her.

She went on. The past is like picking

wherever you choose to live. Do you like Florida or

California? See? You like

the past or the present? Live where you want.

What is the past worth? Sass added.

It’s a spool of thoughts, that’s all, where

                       everything’s wound up once

and for all.

Quell said it’s exhausting

holding on to it. When you get

what you need, it’s always the worst

thing, hanging on real hard to

a thought, say, or a picture

in your mind that wants to fly away.

Sassy comforted by saying

        You’ve been there.

        That’s why you’re here.

Soon it’d be time to send Quelly

away and all she’s have is

what Sassy could give.
All day they made a show of

brightening but it seemed a

mistaken effort. Both knew

that the seeming was not

the being – not at all.

When Sass awoke, Quell was gone.

Quelly felt good for once

like God had said Hello instead

of snubbing her. She walked

back past the hospital

grounds and decided not to

go in, after all. With a reverent pause, she turned

away.

She liked Sassy and all

the people in her shop.

They didn’t talk with perfumed

voices

or with lashes whipped across

her back. She liked them

better than Grey’s roast pork sandwiches.

The traffic of nice people.

She wondered kindly if –

She wondered what she

could – what the difference

was in ---

                      Quelly consulted

both hands and sat on the

curb awhile. She looked

up at the brown stone hospital building

where reality was arranged

carefully for her not to be hurt -

              that was the worst hurt of all.

Resuming a study of each

hand, she knew the fingers

could move beyond

what Sassy gave to them.

She didn’t know much

but she’d find out today where she could buy

a broom.

Grace Cavalieri is the author of books and plays, as well as two opera productions. She produced and hosted “The Poet and the Poem,” broadcast from the Library of Congress via NPR satellite. Cavalieri is the book review editor for The Montserrat Review.com and reviews theater in her column, “American Stage.” Her weekly column of poetry commentaries, “Innuendoes,” is heard on MiPOradio.com. Her 21st play "Quilting the Sun" was presented at the Smithsonian Institution, and received its world premiere at Centre Stage, S.C. In addition, Grace conducts poetry workshops throughout the country. She loves having some untamed poems on Truck.