I miss the grain of Ralph, and the grain
of Ed, and Trixie’s grain, and especially
the grain of Alice, whose pretty, pointed body
would never, ever land on the moon. Alice
was earthbound; Alice was of
the street, and the bus, and I savored
her tenement kitchen, her world
of the single bulb and supper, silvery,
black and white, wrong and right as
the mopped floor. And Alice was strong: she loved
her husband, no matter how many times
he threatened to send her up—
To the moon, Alice!—his fist high
in the grainy air of their bare room;
she knew where the moon really was
as the music swelled at the end
and she fell, every time, into his
big bag of a kiss like a clear and close
star. And their apartment was gray
as a lunar surface—gray grain on the
small set I’d inherited from my great aunt,
whose name was Dolly, who lived all
her older life with her mother, whose name
was Daisy; imagine, the two of them, years
in a house as modest and low and dark as a brick.
No man, no moon for them. But I think
they went to the World’s Fair in Chicago,
and maybe—I picture them—maybe they stood
and considered the Sky Ride: gloves, a brochure
between them, and Look, Dolly—
a thrilling ride across the lagoon.