by MILLICENT BORGES ACCARDI
I was eight, going on seventy.
We ripped our way through Mickey Spillane
With helpless women tied to chairs
Blindfolded on the covers of paperbacks.
Then the T-Birds, roller-ball, those chicks knew
How to elbow and rough it up. We ate coffee
ice cream out of cantalopes, then lazed about
On the love seat. Tom Jones was up next, he
Even sounds like he is sweaty when he sings.
My grandmother gasped when he tossed
Over the handkerchief to a girl
In the audience. Last, we went for Lawrence Welk,
A quiet ending to our torrid girls blight out.
All summer, we played it that way. Margo sipping
High balls and fingering the mini Pall Malls
She got downtown for free. Sexing it slow
Is easy in the shadows
Of the LBC in the 1970’s. It was where I learned
ABOUT THE WRITER: Millicent Borges Accardi, a Portuguese-American writer, has published four books, including her just-published book Only More So (Salmon Poetry Press). She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, CantoMundo, Fulbright, and the California Arts Council. Her website is www.millicentborgesaccardi.com and she’s on Twitter at @TopangaHippie.
Photo © 2012 by Gui Seiz