The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Monday, Grammy Awards, Brookside Blooms

The Supremes
By Mark Jarman

In Ball's Market after surfing till noon,
We stand in wet trunks, shivering,
As icing dissolves off our sweet rolls
Inside the heat-blued counter oven,
When they appear on his portable TV,
Riding a float of chiffon as frothy
As the peeling curl of a wave.
The parade m. c. talks up their hits
And their new houses outside of Detroit,
And old Ball clicks his tongue.
Gloved up to their elbows, their hands raised
Toward us palm out, they sing,
"Stop! In the Name of Love," and don't stop,
But slip into the lower foreground.

Every day of a summer can turn,
From one moment, into a single day.
I saw Diana Ross in her first film
Play a brief scene by the Pacific--
And that was the summer it brought back.
Mornings we paddled out, the waves
Would be little more than embellishments--
Lathework and spun glass,
Gray-green with cold, but flawless.
When the sun burned through the light fog,
They would warm and swell,
Wind-scaled and ragged,
And radios up and down the beach
Would burst on with her voice.

She must remember that summer
Somewhat differently. And so must the two
Who sang with her in long matching gowns,
Standing a step back on her left and right,
As the camera tracked them
Into our eyes in Ball's Market.
But what could we know, tanned white boys,
Wiping sugar and salt from our mouths,
And leaning forward to feel their song?
Not much, except to feel it
Ravel us up like a wave
In the silk of white water,
Simply, sweetly, repeatedly,
And just as quickly let go.

We didn't stop either, which is how
We vanished, too, parting like spray--
Ball's Market, my friends and I.
Dredgers ruined the waves,
Those continuous dawn perfections,
And Ball sold high to the high rises
Cresting over them. His flight out of L.A.,
Heading for Vegas, would have banked
Above the wavering lines of surf.
He may have seen them. I have,
Leaving again for points north and east,
Glancing down as the plane turns.
From that height they still look frail and frozen,
Full of simple sweetness and repetition.


I lost all of Sunday morning to a migraine that I couldn't figure out (not MSG, not snow, not the time of month) until the storm that blew in an hour ago and I checked the air pressure over the course of the past 24 hours. I had to stay horizontal, so we didn't leave the house until afternoon, when we went to Kohl's and Target for some necessities. Then we took Maddy to work and went to College Park for more shopping with Adam, with whom we also had dinner at the Silver Diner since breakfast food was all my stomach could handle.

We got home in time for the Grammys (I saw the annoying BAFTA results and decided I didn't need to watch; good for Viola and Dev and I don't mind Damien winning but UGH ENOUGH LA LA LAND). We missed Adele's start, which I understand was more impressive than her George Michael tribute, but we saw Beyonce's fantastic performance as a goddess and Adele's thank you to Beyonce was quite moving (and she's right, Lemonade should have won album of the year). Corden should get the Oscars next. Brookside Gardens this winter:


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