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Carson McCullers Was a Man, Or Marilyn, 1962 |
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The woman with hair and breasts best described as Marilyn, 1962 is
asking me questions pertaining to my mother. This is not the first
Mexican restaurant we have eaten in together. Where my mother lives
there is a Taco Bell across the street. The woman looks displeased or
indigested. The woman is seeking information I have not provided. I
have told her, "Also there is Cher in Mask and Stevie Nicks on the
cover of Bella Donna." The woman leans forward, uses an acrylic nail to
fish a broken chip from the bowl of salsa. The woman drives a car with
a license plate that reads: G SUS. It is safe to say that the woman's
interests are no longer cinematic. When I met this woman she had a
nude painting of Marilyn over her bed and a dog named Monroe. The dog
has been dead five years and the painting has been replaced by one of
a nonspecific floral arrangement like the kind you find in a crappy
motel. My mother named my childhood dog Carson. My mother put herself
in charge of naming things, among other institutions. My mother wrote
poems for Yoko Ono and Gloria Steinem. My mother had no opinion of
Marilyn Monroe. Again the woman -- Marilyn, 1962 -- is asking a
question. The woman's daughter is to my right and my daughter is
across from me. The age difference -- two years -- is notable. I have
evidence, a well-worn photograph at the bottom of my purse. I dig deep
and come up with a tube of Chapstick. We all go home empty-handed.
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1996 © 2011 |
In the room where I am sleeping there is a picture of Elvis on
the wall. This is something else my mother has in common: shooting our
television with a rifle. The first time I saw a photograph of Carson
McCullers was in a biography of Marilyn Monroe. Arthur Miller was in
the photograph, too, but no one writes poems about Arthur Miller. When
I return my mother will say, "You need to pick your loyalties." I
believed into my twenties that Carson McCullers was a man. If I try
really hard, I still do.