Steven Orlen

Three teenage girls in tight red sleeveless blouses and black Capri pants And colorful headscarves secured in a knot to their chins Are walking down the hill, chatting, laughing, Cupping their cigarettes against the light rain, The closest to the road with her left thumb stuck out Not looking at the cars going past. Every Friday night to the dance, and wet or dry They get where they’re going, walk two miles or get a ride, And now the two-door 1950 Dodge, dark green Darkening as evening falls, stops, they nudge Each other, peer in, shrug, two scramble into the back seat, And the third, the boldest, famous For twice running away from home, slides in front with the man Who reaches across her body and pulls the door shut.

In the house of the voice of Maria Callas We hear the baby’s cries, and the after-supper Rattle of silverware, and three clocks ticking To different tunes, and ripe plums Sleeping in their chipped bowl, and traffic sounds Dissecting the avenues outside.   We hear, like water Pouring over time itself, the pure distillate arias Of the numerous pampered queens who have reigned, And the working girls who have suffered The envious knives, and the breathless brides With their horned helmets who have fallen in love And gone crazy or fallen in love and died On the grand stage at their appointed moments— Who will sing of them now?   Maria Callas is dead, Although the full lips and the slanting eyes And flared nostrils of her voice resurrect Dramas we are able to imagine in this parlor On evenings like this one, adding some color, Adding some order.   Of whom it was said: She could imagine almost anything and give voice to it.