Mignon Ariel King

One, Please

At the Music Hall, we used balcony rush tickets
to stare sighing at her; tiny, twirling, twirling,
in pink and white tulle, twirling in the air

so high I held my breath right before he,
the sculpted-leg male dancer in white tights,
caught her. That’s Prince Charming’s job,

every move he makes revolves around her.
That’s why I preferred the ballet to the opera.
Sunday matinees promised that everyone

would be alright and in love by sundown.
Then we’d go to the Grille for fancy burgers
on homemade sourdough bread with fries

that still had some peel left on the ends.
My big sister was an elementary teacher,
and she let me eat my food how I chose,

as long as it was reasonably discreet.
I nibbled the ends off first, plain except
salt crystals I could see, then dipped

them into tiny tomato pools, twirling,
twirling away the excess so nothing
would drop on my layers of pink lace.

For ten years after that, I only wore a dress
three times--for a funeral, to junior tea,
graduation--always hiding my skinny legs.

Gradually, I became nocturnal, sparkling
to life with Sherry and her pals after movies
at the Cinema 57. Saturdays, we’d spin, singing,

on Tremont and Stuart, college girls in faded
jeans going to the Grille for weekend burgers
and beer. But Fridays, I’d secretly bathe with wine,

bubbles, a platter of salt and pepper fries
surrounding a bowl of salsa, and Placido’s
voice always lifting me higher, oh, higher.

What is your fear?

What is your fear?

the bitchy resident

asked six years ago.

Then the jackasses

sent me home with

a temp of 101, pills,

pneumonia that had

kept me from swallowing

even soup for almost

two weeks already.

Three weeks of not eating

much won’t actually kill you,

a veteran doctor said.

It’s just unpleasant. You’re

a young gal. You’ll bounce

back.  I bounced back

via spinning orange lights

two days later, same half-

dead wheezer, higher fever,

still a woman of thirty-eight.

Smiling EMT’s had to shovel

paths through the blizzard.

The gallon-bottle of garbage 

they had to drain from my lungs 

looked like strawberry Kool-Aid.

I lay in bed for a day, listening 

to Aerosmith, answering doctors who

addressed me as ...our patient...

then asked, How do you pronounce 

your first name? --"It's Professor."