Anne Weil
Looking for My Bra, I Forgot
looking for my bra/ I forgot this morning/ to look
in my hand/ searching/ I remembered laying out
my containment/ mis-remembering/ I thought the
bed was where I’d laid the lacy shelf/ but now I
see my own self mirrored/ 63 years and still/
grasping/ I cling to the material/ to my binding
habits/ unnecessary/ yet too tightly held/ to let go/
even though my sieving mind/ seems keen for the purge
so many little birds
flying away
through open windows
And the Beat Goes On
Palm Springs, CA
On Valmonte Sur there are fountains, at least one to a yard, that babble like exuberant carnival
barkers hawking their wares, “Step right up!” “Greatest Bath on Earth!” And the crowds flock—
towhee to starling, phoebe to finch, swooping down in giddy groups splashing and preening, all
the while watching the humans in stifling suits and sweat-smelly dresses assembling ahead of the
funeral, or rather, Celebration of Life, as these affairs have been rebranded. The cars lurk in the
drive, and they, too, seem uncomfortable, washed and shined, lights on in broad daylight, doors
hanging open like spread wings. I dread the journey and the day, ugly-cry faces hidden behind
dark sunglasses—everyone looking like past-retirement-age secret service—hands cramped and
damp from clutching sodden kleenexes. (Ugh. Think of the germs!) Nobody wanting to be there,
everyone watching their watches. I can’t stop thinking about coffins and confinement, how I’ll
feel trapped at the church by the chanting cantor, the choking incense, the rambling of a priest
who doesn’t know a thing about me, about how to celebrate my life. If he did, none of us would
be sitting sedately in stiff-backed pews. No one would wear black. Instead, we’d all be
technicolor— mid-century modernists in vintage muumuus and Mrs. Roper wigs, splashing and
preening in the Sonny Bono Memorial Fountain, belting out I Got You Babe, laughing until we
pee, our wildness contagious even to the mourning doves who will eschew their coos for
whooping guffaws. And for the first time ever, I’ll be the quiet one, resting my eyes, keeping my
mouth shut. But don’t worry. I’m just thinking about how to get out of this damned box.
Ann Weil's poetry appears in Best New Poets 2024, Okay Donkey, RHINO, Chestnut Review, 3Elements Review, and elsewhere. Author of Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman (Yellow Arrow, 2023) and Blue Dog Road Trip (Gnashing Teeth, 2024), Weil is a former special education teacher, current kettle corn lover, and four-time Pushcart nominee who lives in Michigan and California. To read more of her work, visit www.annweilpoetry.com.
