My Mother Thinks


She’s Gina Lolobrigida,
sweet Italian vamp with dark hair, 
black eyes, lips painted a perfect 
Fire and Ice.  She preens in front 
of the mirror, feather-toed mules stilting 
her legs; net stockings and rhinestones 
shimmer in the spotlight, corset laced 
so tight her 34Cs look like torpedoes 
aimed at any available mark.  My father,
somewhere in the garage, oils 
his joints, rubs hands on his crewcut, 
the car he’s building beginning to take shape.  
Sh’boom, sh’boom.  She kicks a hip, pulls 
her silk robe tight to that gem of a body;
she eases into champagne, drops 
a shoe, settles to watch Trapeze again, 
to see Burt’s dimples wink at her 
on the high bar, head thrown back, 
one perfect leg pointing to the stars.  
But in this version, I’m the annoying, 
chubby kid dragging her back,
holding the long-legged doll, yarn 
curls and rags in my own hair. The lipstick 
I’m not allowed sits next to her coiling 
cigarette, point worn to a perfect edge.  
I slip a toe into one shoe but cannot stand, 
not even a stagger before I fall. 
Mother laughs, not at me, but 
at Burt and Tony squabbling over her.
I give my doll a shake, try 
to get her attention but she’s too busy, 
pursing glassy lips at the high wire act 
on the screen.  The dog grabs the shoe, 
barks, “Ladies and gentlemen, children 
of all ages, see The World’s Most 
Beautiful Woman, at home.”  
“'Life could be a dream, sweetheart.'”