Goodnight, Honey
She wasn’t crazy about the insipid
platinum blondes she was asked
to play, sop to buffoons,
goddess too merciful to see
she could turn them to ashes,
or orangutans with a murmured spell.
Her last film was The Misfits:
written by her husband: a woman
in pigtails and jeans, frank
and naive, blind to the effect
she has on cowboys as lost
as she. She finds them trapping
defiant mustangs, and fights
them off, before they can break
another soul. In The Seven Year Itch
she straddles a subway grate, steam
lifting her skirt like the hot breath
of a Minotaur or drooling neighbor.
In Some Like it Hot she plays ukulele
in a women’s band, crossing paths
with two musicians, disguised
as ladies. She’s done with guys
who squander her money
on the ponies, and other girls.
Sleeping that first night
on the train, the bass player climbs
into the upper bunk, drunk
on enchantment. He wishes her
goodnight. Goodnight, Honey,
she replies, in that whispery
way, softer than moonlight.
For that moment, this
orphan of the world
splurges without caution,
warmth impossible
to find. In that astonishing
instant, gone before we know,
actual care brushes
our cheek. But lingers
as long as we let it.
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