At
first an athlete in his father's image,
Next
a lawyer on his father's trail,
Then
a priest after his father's shadow,
Along
the way secretly a teenage actor
In
search of his mother's youthful dreams.
Imitative
lives, a host of masks, applause.
For
what? Applause for what?
For
a jump shot from the top
Of
the key, a closing argument
In
defense of false innocence,
The
forgiveness of fabricated sins?
Why
would an actor want the part?
Why
would the boy want the actress?
Though
he dreamed of you, Alexandra,
You
too were not who you seemed,
Not
Sandra Dee, not a happy-go-lucky
Pony-tailed
blond nymph on the beach.
You
were a devastated soul on display.
Yet
at fifteen he stole your photograph
From
the Bainbridge Theatre in the Bronx,
An
image that took him far away
From
where life had set him down
Between
parents lost in a war
They
didn't start but didn't stop.
What
was he to do, Sandy,
Wandering
through this terrible maze
From
which he could find no exit?
In
your white Gidget bathing suit
You
seemed like a way out to him
An
innocent beauty to his secret shame.
What
he was guilty of, he didn't know,
Only
that he must serve time
For
the crime of false appearances,
The
guilt of wanting to become
Not
who he was, but one who must,
Through
pleasing fictions, save them.
The
truth of his desire had to be hidden.
So
your photo, that shadow of a shadow,
He
hid beneath his mattress,
While
unknown to him, shortly before,
Your
step-father hid you beneath his body,
Your
mother a silent passive accomplice.
This
he learned only years later
When
you emerged from hiding, a bruised
And
anorectic middle-aged ex-alcoholic.
Your
photo again, this time staring
From
the cover of People Magazine,
Your
dark sad story laid out within.
And
the coincidences at the time:
Your birthday the same as his mother's,
Herself
a thwarted aging actress living
In
hated Bayonne, your New Jersey birthplace.
His
daughter, a fifteen year old blonde actress
Playing
Sandy in "Grease," Sandy playing Sandra.
Surfaces,
of course, weird yet telling.
Your
name not really your name,
Your
face a face to face the world
To
say, Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee,
When
in truth you were an actress
Playing
a part in an amnesiac's dream.
So
too the boy slowly lost his way
As
he disappeared down a hall of mirrors,
Trying
to remember to forget something.
Imitative
lives, a host of masks, applause.
All
in the service of a terrifying fear
Of
being no one but the boy he was.
Yet
nothing prepared him for the shock
Of
the mirror image you were for him,
A
lover, a sister, a soul mated to vague pain,
Springing
from a childhood wound.
Your
face the face of a hidden poet
Addressing
the world for the first time.
Look, the mirrors are all broken.
