The Blue Moon Review - Poetry

Poem by Susan Terris

Roy Cohn

Seeing Angels in America reminded me
I knew him. Spring weekends
in '54 when Army-McCarthy hearings
recessed, he flew to Miami Beach
to sit in the cabana next to Grampa Jack's
at the Roney Plaza.
I was 16 that year, wore my first black Lastex
bathing suit, flung my hair about,
and tucked gardenias
from Gramp's garden behind one ear.

When Roy and I were introduced, he mumbled,
Pleased to meet you, turning back to
the phone to issue orders and threats.
His aide (each week a different one)
would place his calls,
then run in the surf while Roy --
27-year-old body pale -- hunkered in shade.
Although edgy and impatient, he
had time for Grampa.
To him, Roy was courtly, an audience for
jokes, news of jai alai or dog racing.
He'd ask about Thursday's pinochle game,
who'd won, who'd lost,
how much money had changed hands.

At 16, I was learning lessons of power
Roy already knew. His was temporal,
but mine (I hoped) would be eternal, so I
wore the black suit strapless, Fire and Iced
my lips, pinned a pair of gardenias behind
my ear to saunter the cabana boardwalk
as Gramp talked with Roy.
Finally, Roy reacted. Jack, listen, if she wasn't
jailbait, I'd ask her out,
he said, lying, lying yet ever-polite,
But she is -- so tell her,
if you would, she's blocking my view.