in which a lotta hussy nothin’ floats, so writes

Variety of vaudeville’s paints that obsidian a face

moon-pale, shuttered to history—

Mae sends her maid Bea west

to Harlem where she cannot travel

to procure her tunes (Piano man croons: “He may be your man

but he comes up to see me sometimes”; “That’ll do,” Bea says) while

on the boards Mae nips out bits

of bio (spouse and birthday both), turns her script to cryptic

lace as police haul her off

for indecency. (“My play?” she purrs. “Let’s call it

‘Coitus,’ shall we?”)

In the courts and on the boards, Mae sways

and shimmies. Bea, from her place

behind curtains, applauds

as Mae’s mouth spits out bursts

of Bessie Smith, Lady Day, Ma Rainey.

Mae loves Bea so much she writes her

into play (Diamond to Maid: “Lissen, shadow,

whad’re you doin’ here?”), laughs at the thought

only one letter between them separates.

Dalí’s canvas is a frame

within a frame, portrait of a face for which

the outline is enough. She’s a sofa now. An oriflamme. Her eye

discourses. Hey, what’s that dark that breaks

through yonder window?

Court: So did you ever see her navel?

Witness: No, but I did see somethin’ in her

middle travel east to west.

Freedom

FREEDOM

He’s the kind of man a woman would have to marry to get rid of.

Mae: once, a man wrestled me to ground, wrangled my hands in his

and, when I tried to knee him in the groin (missed),

yanked my legs from under so I wouldn’t run. He laughed

as I saw stars. I get it: freedom (for a woman) has

a tag on it: ya gotta have more strength at hand, ya gotta have

no fear of fists. Give a man a free hand, he’ll run it all over you.

Gag whose strut of which I’m envious; of you, who thrived

on hungers without risk. Should I praise or blame these plays

no girl’s reality might imitate? Not even yours, feinting

off a drunken Fields, Yale men aswarm upon your stage—

To slide on your armor means to fake

away what hurts. The one who, instead of kiss, would shove.

The one who, gently, strangled. Mae, we weren’t swift

enough to rid ourselves of them. We were never swift enough.

Go West

GO WEST

“Mae West”: British slang in WWII for inflatable life jackets