Feathers

Enzo was sixty and I was eighteen.
We had just changed the marquee
and were taking a cigarette break
before the new movie began.
He took off his maroon jacket,
tossed his bow tie to the ground,
and rolled his bright white shirtsleeves up,
revealing a harem of tattoos.

“Go ahead, touch…touch,” he urged,
his accent thick and rich as Bolognese.
Suddenly shy, I dared to glide
my fingers over his damp skin,
tweaking nipples, caressing thighs
of the ladies that resided there.

“Which one’s Lucia?” I asked.
Surely one of them was his wife,
the ancient lady
who smelled of garlic and rosewater,
who trudged across the theatre parking lot
in big black boots,
who pulled clementines out of her coat pockets
and brought us tins of homemade cookies for Christmas.
“Oh, I must be a movie star to land such a ladies’ man!”
she once said, as Enzo kissed her cheek.

“No Lucia there,” he shook his head.
“She . . . she is my angel wings
and these just feathers in my cap.”
But you bled for them, I thought, then blurted,
“Didn’t they hurt?”
“Yes,” he smiled, “but I was so excited,
I didn’t realize how much until much, much later.”

That night, he waited for me in the balcony
behind the last row of seats,
slid me out of my underwear,
my virginity left on the floor in a silken heap.
I bled for him
but he went home to Lucia.
Outside, the dark marquee spelled out something
I couldn’t quite make out,
something I couldn’t quite remember.