Closed for Repairs


I never wanted the Piranha Lounge, but boy 
had I earned it by the time Bruno~s 
insurance policy paid off.
I hated the place because it
made me what I was.
I love it because it 
made me what I am.

I didn~t care if Bruno lived or died
so it was easy to be his wife
until I was arrested for his murder.
I was acquitted, released, 
and the bar was mine.

I scrubbed dead ghosts
from every floorboard and rafter.
But even Mr. Clean
couldn~t ease the odor:
dry but somehow still rotten.

After hearing the applause 
of naked mirrors being smashed 
with a bar stool, I decided 
to do the renovations myself 
and tore down the splintered stage 
where I had danced ridiculous. 

The place wasn't a titty bar, it was a nightclub
that would serve drinks of pastel greens
and demure reds, concoctions 
named after stars born in my own constellation 
twinkling with wishes, light-years old, 
about to come true.

I tacked endless strings of tiny blue lights
to the ceiling.  As I walked through the bar, 
blue twinkled under the lace canopy that hid
the wires.  It was finally happening,
I was going to be discovered, loved.

I dipped star-shaped sponges in glue 
and then onto the walls.  Throwing
fistfuls of blue and silver glitter, 
I scattered stars from my fingertips.  

I decided to keep the floor covered 
with glitter so strangers could follow
a twinkling path back to the Mambo Club.

When I'd worked enough
(after about six whiskey sours), I started 
lighting candles in deep bowls 
where the wind could whisper 
flickers to the flames but never 
put them out.  

I put on my favorite record,
"Harvest," *Dream up, dream up
let me fill your cup with the promise
of a man.*  It was my turn to dance
the way I always wanted:

clothed and alone with no spotlight
except for an occasional moon,
I'd twirl on the fire escape 
I called the verandah
wearing baby-doll pajamas
made of cotton so thin  
it couldn~t keep moonlight 
from tingling my skin.

I~d sing to a sky full 
of friendly stars and
hit every note perfectly,
blushing at the sound 
of my own voice, music 
descending and settling 
on me like gold 
talcum powder.

I danced a cheek to cheek
with the memory of a man
I invented, felt someone watching
through my wind chimes
as my bare feet warmed
on the smooth black iron 
that held the day~s heat.

Sometimes clouds stole my stars.
I'd sit in the rain smelling roses and rust,
wishing upon raindrops for a lover.

*It can't be all in my head*  I repeated,
until I'd remember being bent over 
and driven into, sucked 
dry, arrested and strip-searched,
married and widowed:  sleepless nights 
swallowed tomorrows.  

I never wanted to open the place again,
didn't want any more
of what people had to offer.  

On the first anniversary of Bruno's accident,
(I wanted him dead, so help me God,
but I couldn't kill him) I sat in a booth 
to wait out the rain and lit a midnight
cigarette.  I blew smoke rings, 
floating white holes that disappeared 
into the innocent air of what had been
the Mambo Club.

My finger found a hole chewed in my seat 
by a mouse.  He swallowed a gutful of vinyl
for a drop of spilt ketchup.
I needed to be that hungry.

Anyone empty enough
to hope for hunger
finds it immediately.

After spending so much time alone,
I realized how beautiful I could feel ~
how slow and irreversible 
loneliness could be ~
how scared I was.