Telling fortunes by reading tea leaves,
just a pastime for a girl with two left
feet and a voice not for singing.
Vaudeville dying, Mama Rose desperate
still for fame;
who knew that grandma’s gift for lingerie
would be my legacy.
That connection furthest
from my mind when I first stepped on stage.
“Just drop a shoulder strap and show
some leg?” she ordered,
she who promised the manager I had a routine,
she who promised I knew what to do at 14 on stage
in front of men, their newspapers in hand
to shield their ejaculations.
But will that be enough? I was hungry
then, still am, no matter the money or fame.
What I didn’t write in my memoir, what I kept silent
what I read in the tea leaves maybe
I learned early –
leave them wanting.
Mama Rose, or Madame Rose as she christened herself,
taught us to take charge,
to take the stage according to our own terms
no matter the hour.
Asylum seekers each of us,
on stage, off stage I never revealed much or enough.
I left them all wanting
so now, even buried, they want more
of me.
