Bayswater Street
Poem by Donna O’Connell
Cheese grater, chunks of romano,
pasta pan massaged to gleaming,
return to pantry shelf.
Nana lathers on the Pond’s,
rolls her huge torso into bed.
She beseeches St Anthony
to find her cat Bella.
Beads rustling, she repeats
Our Fathers in heaven,
and Mary Immaculates
sitting on his right hand.
She gasps the words.
I, quiet beside her, wondering
if the Father’s hand got tired.
Studebaker lights, old Cadillacs
roam across the bedroom curtains,
as boys drive up and down
Bayswater Street, Little Richard
shouting from their radios,
“I got a gal, named Sue,
she knows just what to do!”
Boys broadcasting for girls
who might jerk open the door.
Hard to wait for my turn.
The car is a blue Desoto,
crack in the vent window.
I’m fifteen. The boy lunges at my mouth.
I can hardly catch my breath.
His hand slides up my thigh.
Heat rises. I gasp.
Nana shifts in bed, garlic on her breath.
“Stop! No!” I shove his hand away,
preserving Mary Immaculate,
preventing Satan from poking at my flames
