HEART OF GLASS

Short and thin. She stands and sways now bathed in lights colored like drinks that need parasols. Eyes roll under lids and open lazily, softly, unfocused. She cradles the mic like a cock. Words writhe from pouty mouth almost against time, as if dubbed after the fact. She shakes slowly on hips. Pelvis an aching cage of bone. Uncle says she's bombed. Mom can't believe she's able to stand. Bottle of Blue Nun empty. Hollow cabbage bowl scraped of Green Goddess. The other kids dancing awkwardly. Firecrackers popping. She looks like a robot, dad says. Her movements lush and slow and stunted. This tiny blond. Reminds me of Marilyn, mom says. But she's too compact and feral to be all hips and ass and mouth Monroe. Aunt comes back from the kitchen after trying to scrub the Riunite outta her fur.

Times Square. I wouldn't be there for a million dollars, uncle says. Couldn't pay me. No amount of money. Pass the can of Charles Chips. Dick Clark bundled like Nanook. His voice is clear and young and he says look at all these beautiful people and then the ball drops. New decade. An hour later we're all crammed into a tiny Shoney's booth eating breakfast and sharing strawberry pie. There's a man and woman smoking across from us and he dribbles a brown bagged pint into his coffee cup. Muzak version of "Heart of Glass" plays. All the waitresses here in Buster Brown mules. Mustachioed. Their breath like ginger snaps. Smoke hangs gray three feet below the ceiling. A man stands in the parking lot holding a Roman candle as it fires. What a goddamn genius, manager says, head sweating below combover. I hated the 70s, mom says.