There’s my spot, that cozy corner. Ah,
that’s better. Somebody, advising her, said
name this place Il Gesu, thinking, perhaps,
of Roman Baroque but as you see, it’s stark
as a spineless Calvinist preacher’s chapel, saving,
Deo gratias, the bright bottles at the bar.
That’s Marie, founder, owner, cook,
bartender, janitor, waitress, or rather her chubby
thighs and bottom, yes, there, scraping
gum off stool-bottoms. Quietly,
almost profitably, she’s run Il Gesu
twenty years, queen of her own heaven.
Ave Maria.

   Patience; she’ll minx over, in kittenish shy
fashion, taking her own good time,
to this, our (hers and mine) regular
afternoon corner - given it’s not crowded,
and if her blue Camaro’s in the lot.
Knows me then? Sure she knows me,
knows I hate Elton John (listen,
she’s turning him down now), preachers, partisans,
professor-talk, ignorant news-skanks (see,
she’s remoting to her soap), snooty accents,
most men, and most adamantly falsehood
and other species of demonic blasphemy. What else
need she know? By their hates ye shall know them.
A man cannot hate hypocritically,
ambitiously, snobbishly, as he ever
loves. Can he, you ask, be also saved
by his hates? She’d know. Marie knows.
Besides, she poureth out a generous shot
and loveth a cheerful tipper.
Gratia plena.

   Ah - startling apparition - she's here.
Try my usual spirits? Yes, Marie,
the usual, but two today, as you’ve doubtless
figured out. Wait. Let me slap
a cheek behind as you turn. There.
No, she doesn’t hang around for chitchat.
And don’t, merely because she folds her arms
and leans against the table’s edge, think her
provocative; not in that way.
Money, for her, is everything. No,
not sexual. Greedy. Predatory, I’d say,
for money. Money for rent, lights, quacks,
Camaro, loafer boyfriend’s beer, gas,
fines, sisters’ bail, and kids: kids'
food, kids’ so-called school, kids'...
The crucifix? Overly realistic? Crookedly
hung? I'd say charmingly. OK,
flopped then, if you wish; flopped by faith
in the smooth as sanded wood cleft of her breast,
token of God’s suffering Son amply
resting in the maternal warmth of her bosom;
as she by faith trusts she'll rest in His,
in His Father’s House.
Dominus tecum.

   Yes, you could - are you insisting? - make
a list. She stinks of cigarettes; smiles
close-lipped, hiding bad teeth
behind vermillion lips; fingertips sticky
as a frog’s. Sick of quarelling at Thanksgiving
with six sisters over who is who’s
father, she brags, as earned distinction, of whelping
her two kids by the same man (the two
of her six she didn’t abort). But consider her one
aspiration: to parade (after she’s croned
and croaked, she says, after those wrangling throngs
of gods and demons - have you considered my servant
Marie? - have settled her next life - female
slave in Memet’s paradise? Maharanee
in Hindustan? contemplative Nirvana
essence? floating Gluckian Elysium thing?)
to parade, crucifix in bosom, with the army
of saints marching in, with Theresa, Lucy,
Agnes, Cecilia; ahead of Pastor Peter,
Priest Padraig, Pope Pius, prophets,
professors, admirals, heros, who (if there at all)
will serve her cocktails in her mansion, and she’ll
pat their obsequious little butts to stop them
grovelling at her feet.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus.

01/26/2011

Posted on 01/26/2011
Copyright © 2025 James Unger