Thunder Sandwich #26 - Angela Consolo Mankiewicz

Savages

We're supposed to be better than that -

define Better for me - than what? than who?

Cro-Magnons? cannibals? dullards we labeled

Neanderthals? what about our very own ethnic

Natives? All savages. Wild barbarians.

We're wild too, but tameable, we insist,

with all the irrefutability of tongues-talking

re-borners back in the flock of the lord.

See Dick run: clawing, gnawing, grabbing,

Jane at his heels clawing, gnawing, grabbing

until we stop - I stop: breath cut off less

than a fistful of minutes, too few

to grasp that it's over - I'm

over: a bus, a knife, heart attack;

an undistinguished instant and me and my savagery

stop, adding to earth's renewable resources;

me and my savagery ended, suddenly, and likely,

unnoticed, except by someone I've ignored

or sneered at, hidden my meal from, stolen

a meal from; most have forgotten, moved on

to newer indignities.

Who would remember, for a moment, something good:

a hand held? a heart held? a meal offered ... mercy ...

define Good for me ....

A Hand to Hold

You were 11, pretty and very bright, eager

to meet Daddy's girlfriend; you were talkative,

sure, and very polite.

At a favorite pizza place, you followed me

into the booth and I did my best not to touch

you, not to taint.

You ordered first, certain what you wanted,

never doubting you'd get it; your father smiled

and I hurriedly followed; you ate and chatted,

praising the best pizza in the world; your father

lit another cigarette, my heart continued to beat

a bit too fast for too long. And then it was over.

Walking to my car, your father took the outside

and I shrank away to make room for you, but you

wrapped around my right, fixing me in the middle,

and then you took my hand.

I had no memory to call on, adult to child to adult,

to tell me what to do, and instinct had no meaning;

gagging on adulterous guilt, taunted by medieval cacklings

and leftover catechisms, my hand stiffened in yours,

then died, bloodless and cold,

until you slipped away.

You're 16, fucked up and sullen,

rescued from your mother's popcorn

dinners and harridan screeching

at your sudden and substantial cleavage;

from your runaway room in San Francisco,

picked up by cops, startled we want you back,

home, an address you demand be changed.

You demand a lot of things:

attention

your way

attention

my bathroom

attention

You get:

cash to spend

regular meals

chores

new underwear

my bathroom

I'm half a generation

older than you

old enough to be

young enough to be

I was working at home,

consulting,

decent dollars an hour

You'd invited a friend

a new friend,

from a new high school

I bounced out of the bedroom,

newly furnished with my desk

hauled through the hallway

out of what was now your bedroom

Your friend was white-blond,

you were golden,

you were kids, Juniors,

I was twice your age,

black-haired, like your mother.

For a moment,

I was a kid,

latching on

to your chatter

like a kid

just another kid

just a little older

You were polite, respectful,

like you'd been taught;

I turned myself into

that other being I was not

and went back to my room.

You wanted a hand to hold

I wanted order

You wanted to belong

I wanted an arrangement

You wanted "baby makes 3"

I wanted my weekends back

I'd try to remember

I was the one

who insisted

you'd run off again;

I'd figured

what the hell

a couple of years

you'd be off to college;

we'd work it out.

But we didn't.

You were molded

by other hands:

you stuck out where

I inverted; you withdrew

where I sprouted.

College encouraged

your nightmares

drugs, booze

campus swaps

plane fares

more plane fares

your mother

no mother

dropping out

a job

no job

You holed up in your room

hard-eyed into late-night TV

coma-sleeping through the afternoon;

damn it -

I wanted my weekends back.

You taught me to sulk

and became my obsession,

seething out of the house

mid-evenings

onto back streets

to screech my resentment

in the car

at your father

squeezed by the loves

of his life

soon to implode

into heart

attack

You're grown, now,

into your own world, creating

your own life, mimicking mine:

bathroom towels hanging straight and even,

a man you adore, and his son.

I want to write, call, send up flares,

say what I have no right to say:

listen to me: next chance you get

take his hand, take this boy's hand

and warm it with all that you are;

I guarantee you: better times

will come from this ...

such a simple thing,

to take his hand and hold it

like I couldn't hold yours.

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