Ben’s Rendezvous

POETRY

by Miriam Levine

On Lucille Place in Passaic
I wandered from home,
though forbidden. I was
seven and small for my age.
It was twilight. It was spring.
The trees had come to life.
The leaves were the light
green of praying mantis wings.
The seeds actually had wings.
They came spinning down
to cinder-strewn tree strips.
The sound of voices drifted
through open windows like dim
voices in dreams. I went on
past houses with dark halls
smelling of bleach and wax.
At the corner of Lucille
and Monroe I said to myself,
Go back, go back, yet kept on
past steam-clouded windows
of Rice’s delicatessen,
past the market on Monroe,
where the grocer with damp
red hands would wring the tops
off carrots, kept going till I
reached the corner of Monroe
and Myrtle. It was dark then.
The blue lights of Ben’s
showed icy blue, and black
mirror-like panels gleamed
like puddles in the gutter.
I tried to sound out Ren,
Ren like Ben, but vous?
Like goose, I thought. The black
door swung in, and the stink
of sweat streamed out—the smell
of beer, I know now. Beer
and cigarette smoke. It made
me dizzy. I shivered.
Someone laughed. Someone sang,
I’m traveling light . . . no one
but me and my memories.
I saw people embracing. They
danced chest to chest, thigh
to thigh. The hands did
not move. Oh, they kissed.
The light above the bar was pink,
and the people in command
of their swaying bodies. I
swayed too, drunk on kisses,
my fingertips caught on
the skirt of my dress held
by sashes tied at the back,
then without any intention
I hummed sound like breath
blown to vibrating
M’s through a pitch pipe.

Deeper, Darker

POETRY

by Miriam Levine

Everything bright will darken,
this day, that star, this river,
little frill of the blackberry flowers
giving way to insistent bodies,
the boy’s voice deeper, darker
our sky, the swelling cloud,
leaf and the shadow of the leaf,
bird and the bird’s cry. It’s late,
at night. We’re not done with love.