HALF ANGEL, HALF LUNCH

Sharon Mesmer    

Outside you're a big girl now,
owner of things that plug in,
safely emigrated from the old neighborhood's mothery clutch.
But inside broods that familiar kid:
big-kneed bird-legs in saddle shoes,
uselessly rouged nipples beneath a nautical shirt bought at Sears,
who watches the ex-lover sneak into evening,
melting back into suburbia in
his mother's Mercedes.

Tonight he's returned after six years,
and just for old times he's sat you down and forced you to recall
the all-night black girl beauty salons and big-gut bowling alleys
you introduced him to,
the storefront fish restaurants of the slums,
the dates at the dirty movie,
beginning with six-packs of Bud and handfuls of Ramses Extras,
continuing onto the Puerto Rican pompadour roller rink,
and ending with the cinematic swirl of his mad young kisses,
beneath the still-bright marquee of an ancient south side theatre.

His return brings a miasma of memories, most of them bad:
department store parking lot blow-jobs while passing shoppers watch;
a Bronx cheer from outside the Cozy Cafe window
in front of all your friends;
3 a.m. phone calls that upset your mother;
and breaking your tail bone skating on Fleet Street,
while he scouts the neighborhood snack shops for noontime blondes:
"Love means having to say you're sorry every five minutes," he explains.

Afterwards you watch from your third floor window:
he strolls over to the Mercedes parked in front of The Magnolia Arms
("Uptown's Classiest Halfway House"),
gives the thumbs-up to the homeless man in the undershirt
muttering on the curb,
then cowboys the car away.
Filled with feeling you pry your skinny viscera sky-wide
to let in the eternity of the evening,
batter against heaven until it gives back
all your nine-hour St. Jude novenas, patron saint of hopeless cases,
the rosaries recited desperately, breathlessly, on the City Hall toilet
to insure his affection forever,
memories of lying prostrate beneath him for weeks,
distraught from love's insomnia,
and the intense, now-gone desire you long,
once again, to possess.

Look! The couples kissing on Coiler's Beach
are worshipping the first place he stood you up!
The totem pole at Bittersweet and Eden is a beacon
to the first place you slapped his face!
The whole of Chicago is a shrine to his first romantic line:
"Is that your real hair color?"

Listen! The wild night is calling.
But no, your small amens simply dissipate
noplace in particular.