Sin

My brother braces the worn cardboard box against the bed lest the photographs spill from its bowed, damp sides. We didn’t know my mother stored hundreds of photos up there in the dark awkward attic. Setting about my task of sorting treasuring saving all these people and places I am stopped by Aunt Shirley.

My Aunt Shirley, who had moved off Staten Island,

who had a good job, worked in a Manhattan bank,

 who had her own apartment off Washington Square,

who was the most devout Catholic of the bunch of them,

who was in love with her best friend's fiancé,

slept with him, became pregnant and in June of 1952

slit her throat with Grandpop's razor in the white tile bathroom 

of my grandparents' big house on Castleton Avenue.

A man, a neighbor, broke open the door, and so Nana found her. 

Blood, screams and whispers, then a priest who refused 

to say Mass at her funeral or bury her in a consecrated grave. 

Maybe my mother wanted to die too, but she was a wife 

who had children to raise, and a house in New Jersey to keep.

My mother never talked about her sister, but Dad told us. 

I have the photos, can see how close, how alike they'd been back then—

small girls, school girls, teenage brunettes with trim figures, unguarded eyes.

Now that Mom has died, I meet Aunt Shirley. 


a version of this poem was first published at Sheldon Lee Compton's Revolution John magazine

Drago, Book Promotion, a Poem about Waitressing and a Video of Gabriel Orgrease Reading "Lavender, a Liberal"

My brother Drago is a Catholic Buddhist. He has been lighting many candles in hopes of influencing the choice of new Pope. I hope this works and Drago has a say, because he knows what he's about, whether it's teaching yoga, explaining the basic concepts of Singularity to me or to someone with a chance in hell of understanding what he's talking about, or 16th century English literature--which brings me, in a clunky segue, to me.

As you may or may not know, I have written a collection of poems and it has been published by The Linnet’s Wings and is available on Amazon and through Create Space. For some reason, if you buy it on Amazon, I, the actual author, only get $1.47 out of the $16.00 price. If however, if you buy it from https://www.createspace.com I get $4.67. It is called One Day Tells its Tale to Another, and I’ve put my reviews, which are also on Amazon where the book has a 5 star rating, (but don’t buy it there!) on my website, http://www.nonnieaugustine.com. So, that’s about that. I do not like having to promote my book this way, but there you go. I’ve never been businesslike and I’m not just saying that to sound artistic. When I was four I decided I wanted to be a ballerina, and decisions like that one have kept on coming throughout my life--dancer, special ed teacher, obscure poet. I did pretend to be a secretary at one point, but I wasn’t very good at it, and I had only a vague idea about what my boss did. My secretary days were after I stopped dancing and before I started teaching. There were also a few stints at waitressing that taught me many things about myself and life that I hadn't learned in dance class and, happily for me, I got a poem out of them. It’s in my book. Oh, hell. I’ll post it here because you may not buy my book just to read my poem about waitressing.

THE FRIENDLY WAITRESS

On my two-top young lovers gaze at each other and share

her linguini, his prime rib. He butters her bread and she purrs. 

Three salesmen drink and eat and stare at my body. 

I try not to mind; they'll tip me 20%.

Our king, the Chef, rules his steamy realm 

with steely eyes, paces his rum. Before closing

he’ll be maudlin, desperate. The sous chef flirts, 

quips, chops and slices. We like him for his cheer. 

The old Greek grunts as we pick up his exquisite meringues,

tarts and layer cakes. Dishwashers talk trash in broken English--

not the paper-pale junkie. His silence is frantic.

I hoist my tray with six covered dishes. My back and feet

scream “Quit!” At my six-top a tired toddler's flung 

mashed potatoes at his sister, the floor, their table.

 If I clean up the mess now, I’ll fall behind; drinks wait

at the bar for the three-top, I need to take a dessert order

from the lovers, clear the four-top because the fucking 

busboy is hopeless. Two more years and I'll be a teacher.

Will I make it? Will I still be kind?

Lest you think this collection, which you may or may not be thinking about buying is full of swear words (it’s not--just a few) or dour, here’s a wonderful thing that a poet friend did to my great delight and surprise. He made a video of himself reading one of my poems. Gabriel grappled with a line or two and he kept that in his reading, but I love it all the more for that. (I am writing in a peculiar voice today. This is something that happens from time to time. It may be because I am embarrassed about promoting my book. Dunno.) Here’s the link to the video: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=afnBroeRGyI

  

Nonnie and Drago and the Good Life

Nonnie and Drago and the Good Life

On Thursday, while I was napping (I have a no-expiration-date note from my first cardiologist, the one I had such a crush on, that prescribes guilt-free naps every day. Pretty cool. ) a Breville espresso machine arrived from our brother in Philadelphia and his wife.  My brother Drago put it together then we admired it, read the instruction booklet, and talked about it a lot. Didn’t get up the nerve to use it until Friday morning, when I made myself a delicious cappuccino. When Drago got home from teaching Yoga, I made him a macchiato. I’m a barista! On Saturday Drago used the machine to make a regular cup of coffee, under my supervision. He was impressed, and will, no doubt become a barista, too.

So, there was that. Also, new leather furniture for the Florida room had been delivered about a week ago; my brother and I mulled décor, Drago rearranged this and that, and the room looks great, except for the kitty litter corner. Drago has assembled all the pet products under a milking stool I found up in Pennsylvania back when I was still a wife and bought things like old milking stools. Lydia, our housekeeper, says people will see it and say “What a beautiful room! And y’all have a cat.” It’s not smelly, though. No really, it isn’t. Drago cleans the box all the time and our cat is nothing if not neat. He even comes in from outside to do his business. I’ve decided I like Sam’s corner. It’s so honest. No coy screening devices for our household’s cat stuff. “This is who we are. A man, a woman, a dog and a cat.” The dog, Blossom, owns half my bedroom.

The kitchen is getting up-scaled, too. Drago bought us a black ceramic glass-topped stove, which was delivered Saturday. Dunno. He and I are on a spree, I guess.  It’s super sleek-looking, and, I believe, will work, which is nice in a stove, don’t you think?

Hmm. Here we are, way down the page and I haven’t talked about the ritziest thing that happened this weekend. Friday night Drago was féted by a secret admirer. My brother and I and five of his friends were treated to a splendid supper at a very classy restaurant-so classy that President Obama and the First Lady chose to eat there when they visited our city. We never found out who arranged this dinner in Drago’s honor, or exactly why whoever it was (we figured it was the doctor and friend in our party, but were finally convinced it wasn’t, and Drago shot down the idea that the secret guy is from New York, because he’s sure all his friends in the City have died by now) went to all the lovely trouble, and not to be crass, expense. The head chef even came to our table to wish us a fine meal and assure us that everything had been taken care of. My brother and I think the mysterious event might have been in honor of Drago’s still being alive. Well, you know, he’s had AIDS for twenty-seven, give or take, years and survived three kinds of cancer. He’s not just hanging on, either. My brother recently became a Level 5 certified yoga teacher and a practicing Catholic Buddhist. Oh, it was a fine time. I got to dress up, didn’t need my eye patch, and felt pretty damn sparkly. Drago loved his féte and that we have a marvelous mystery to ponder. I hope the dear man (we were told it was a man) reads this blog post. If you do, I want you to know that I think you’re a peach! xxoononnie