My Old Idols

I. AT TEN 1955. A scratchy waltz Buzzed over the ice rink’s P.A. My classmate Tony, the barber’s son: “Alls He wantsa do is, you know, like, play.” Bored with perfecting my languid figure eights, I trailed him to a basement door marked GENTS With its metal silhouette of high-laced skates (Symbols, I guess, of methods desire invents). Tony’s older brother was waiting inside. I’d been “requested,” it seemed. He was sixteen, Tall, rawboned, blue-eyed, Thumbs hooked into faded, tightening jeans. I fumbled with small talk, pretending to be shy. Looking past me, he slowly unzipped his fly. II. CALLAS Her voice: steeped in a rancid syrupy phlegm: Whatever’s not believed remains a grace While again she invokes the power that yields: Splintered timber and quick consuming flame: The simplest way to take hold of the heart’s Complications, its pool of spilt religion: A long black hair sweat-stuck to the skin: The bitter sleep of the dying: the Jew in Berlin: Who sent you here? the sharp blade pleads: Stormcloud: thornhedge: starchill: Blood bubble floating to the top of the glass: The light, from fleshrise to soulset: The world dragging the slow weight of its shame Like the train of pomp: guttering candle: her voice. III. IN CLASS Parasangs, satraps, the daily drill . . . Beginner’s Greek its own touchstone. The sophomore teacher was Father Moan, Whom I longed to have praise my skill. The illustrated reader’s best Accounts of murder and sacrifice Only suggested the heavy price I longed to pay at his behest. He’d slap the pointer against his thigh. I quivered. What coldness may construe Of devotion was an experience As hard to learn as catch his eye. I kept my hand up.Here! I knew The right answer. The case. The tense.