The Little Emperor (John Biscello responding to Anthony Hassett)

I have seen

the Little Emperor—

mischievous, unabashed, baiting

in borrowed skin

dong tolling through the marketplace

offering his services for a nominal fee.

He leads, without words,

through smile and eyes alone

flesh blood bone advertisement

robed in dust baked brown

in the sun’s unremitting violence

hands nursing thin air

into something mesmeric.

One afternoon I ask him—May I take your picture,

to which he responds by flashing an upturned palm.

As soon as he is paid he strikes a pose,

voguing Marilyn or Madonna,

snap, and then again, snap—

the Little Emperor clearly relishing

the instant celebrity aroused by my camera.

It is only later,

in my room, alone,

images of the Little Emperor

spread upon the table—

that I come to understand

the true meaning of double exposure.

It begins with an Exacto,

and just the right amount of human interest.

A single blade

held up to the light

gently excising

surface claims and

false derivatives.

Bit

        by bit

                    by bit

prosthetic names and dead skin fall away

until I am left gaping into the source of majesty, revealed—

Emboldened,

I run through the marketplace, screaming:

I have seen the Little Emperor naked

I have seen him naked for real—

Yet no one turns to look,

I think because I left my skin

at home, and bluntly lucid

is an advertisement with

too much glare

and not enough hook.

Bonnie Lee Black Responds to The Traveler by Anne Winkler

                                                               The Traveler, by Anne Winkler

Angelina

    Of all the men I might have married, the one that stands out for me now was the Italian tourist who asked me for a kiss as we stood on the corner of Madison and I-forget-what-Street on the Upper East Side that summer afternoon in 1980.

   Of course, I kissed him. I was like that then, accustomed to the admiration of men in New York and accommodating when I was in the mood.

          This man, the textbook young-and-darkly-handsome Italian-Italian, with his broad smile and thick accent, put me in the mood for a street-corner kiss.  But then the light changed, and I went on my way to wherever I was in a rush to get to, gaily waving to him over my left shoulder and saying one of the two words I knew in Italian, “Ciao!”

          I’ve often wondered since: What if I’d lingered, walked with him to wherever he was going, maybe fallen in love and returned with him to Italy? I know this is a leap, but what if this Giuseppe – or whatever his lovely name was – and I had married and had a half-dozen Italian babies who tried their best to teach me, in turn, the intricacies of their musical language?

          I have vivid imaginary memories of our summers together at Giuseppe’s ancient farm in Tuscany. One memory in particular is of our daughter Angelina – the child who was most like me – hitching up a little goat to an old cart and announcing she was running away from home. We all stood in the drive and waved goodbye to her, pretending to be sad, and she waved back. But the goat didn’t take her far.

          Giuseppe’s mother, forever stooped and dressed in widow’s black, never grew to accept me. And her only son, my charming, errant husband, never stopped kissing beautiful young strangers on city street corners.

Yet I’ve never for one moment ever regretted our own street-corner kiss. Without that spark, there would never have been an Angelina.                                                   

       -- Bonnie Lee Black