Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

Finally, Cappelbaum finds parking.
It’s so far from the gallery,
so she drapes her coat close, and goes,
as the wind bothers her hair.
    She wonders whether this one might be
    a five on the Beaufort Scale.

Athwart the ravaged street, she finds lit windows.
Cappelbaum comes inside, removes her coat,
smoothes down her hair with frozen fingers,
takes in the gathered lot, the drinks in rows.
    She meditates: Well, could this be a six?
    Who cares? Who knows?


The man in the tailored suit turns about,
shows a twisted grimace, agony meaning,
It is so nice to see you, eh? Windy!
Everyone sips their wine—red or white.
    Cappelbaum’s dorsum does not feel right.
    It ratchets up, dolorous,

tooth by bone tooth. Now, she wishes to bellow
and rage, shriek with banshees. She knows
all too well the hollowness of such
gatherings, the pointlessness of asking.
    Cappelbaum assesses herself once again.
    The Beaufort’s at ten.


So she drapes herself: first, the scarf,
then shoulder bag, coat—sepulchre and shroud.
The woman who is chewing much too loud;
the man who’s here just to caress a thigh.
    Did you know when it hits thirteen, you
    simply die? (In hand a cocktail napkin.)

But the wind? She understands her well,
why she must lash out at each passerby.
Mercy? That’s for Venusian merchants.
Cappelbaum crawls between the pictures
    on the wall, leaving behind the figures,
    the crowded exhibition hall.