Steven Riel

Rosemary Woodhouse

i.

In spring, once I slough off
the furry lining of my raincoat,
its shell becomes a satin sheath
billowing in breezes finally warm enough
to hold the scent of lilac.
All day as I walk, I'm Mia
Farrow as Rosemary Woodhouse
during those early weeks painted
in celadons, sleepy yellows, chicory blues--
a pastel is any hue with white mixed in,
& Rosemary devotes her days to inviting light
into a dead widow's Victorian pantry,
tacking down cheery shelf paper
in one vaguely troubling closet.

ii.

I imagine I'm you, shopping for fabric, when I’d
calmly cross Manhattan's widest avenues,
a slip of a doe-eyed, Omaha ingenue
with no money worries to fetter my gaze.
Brief, blousy dresses were the rage,
but I wouldn’t keep yanking down my hem,
wouldn’t fold bare arms like St. Joan’s
armor across my boyish breasts.
Of course men would leer
while my blond forearms gleamed,
but I’d float on, unruffled,
so sure I’d be of
the color scheme I’d chosen,
Guy's future as an actor,
the roulade I’d serve for dinner

iii.

Before pain
pinched me into a clenched
stick of chalk

Before my womb became a torture
chamber, & Dr. Sapirstein stood by
while the corkscrew turned

Before the words, "Not fair to Sapirstein?
What about what's fair to me?" spouted
from the chiffon that clouded my voice

Before I wailed, "If you won't pay, then I'll p--"
& realized Guy pulled the purse strings
though I shouldered the bag

Before I found myself mirrored
in the toaster’s shiny side
scarfing down raw liver
when no one was around

Before I solved the anagram
with Scrabble tiles

Before I knew that the prince who pledged
to protect me from wolves
had traded my ovum for a good part in a play

Before I gathered that like the Blessed Mother
I was a baby machine
but she had murmured, "Thy will be done,"
while they had doped me,
kidnapped my choice

Before I looked
into the eyes of Satan

iv.

Legs crossed both at ankle and knee
under her stylish kitchen chair
long after midnight

feverish, fluorescent, she
jots on the backs of recipe cards
she’ll shakily refile:

can't we still fiercely & wholly love
the fragile, first leaves of spring
though we know tent caterpillars will munch & spin

can’t we sing of the pale mauve seedling's
sidelong attempt to blend in
though we know camouflage is lost on the lawnmower

can’t we ache to paint the teen clerk’s taut & creamy skin
though we've wandered nursing-home corridors
in search of a vase for cut flowers
& have witnessed what it all comes to in the end

v.

Rosemary, I want to go back
to the lullaby you lisped
while the opening credits rolled,
when Central Park was an impressionist's
serene & fragrant haze
before the camera zoomed straight down
the Dakota's facade
as though looking down an abyss,
skimming over unbeknownst to us
the window of the extra room
you’d naturally slate as
The Nursery

I want to go back to ask:
do we lose every shred of innocence
once we discern: that evil might smirk
in each & every corner?
That the Devil is inside us?
That whatever pastel we start out as,
life shall smudge some soot in?
That we might in fact choose the forbidden
apple, or have our judgment upended
by a baby's cry?

Was Eden a lie?

The length of my men’s raincoat swish-swishes
against my summer-weight slacks.

O we were so glamorous, so poised
in our slim vulnerability

before we were forced to ask questions

--remember?