Tosca

A poem today about family, about routine, about the everyday pain of being a husband, a wife, a child. The time has faded from when this poem is set, but the humans in it are as modern as tomorrow. Good stuff.

Tosca

by George Bilgere

                                                     

My sister held on to our old turntable

and all the old records we listened to

through the long Italian opera

of our childhood. So tonight

we sit in the living room with some wine

and Puccini, as the needle scratches

the black door of the past, the air comes to life

with that lovely, cornball melodrama,

and our father is sitting in his chair,

ice cubes clinking in his scotch,

and our mother is in the kitchen

trying to be quiet, trying not to disturb

Maria Callas as she explains

to Tito Gobbi that she has lived for art

and she has lived for love, but it's hard

to fry pork chops and dice an onion

without making a certain amount of noise,

and pretty soon my father is shouting at her,

he's trying to listen to the music

for God's sake, could she for once

show a little respect,

and our mother says nothing,

it's just the same old argument

between ghosts, after all—the music

won't let them sleep—

though it has my sister in tears,

and even Tosca has begun to weep.