Celia’s Advice

    by Leslie Clark


She waved her thin brown-clad cigarette like a scepter
as she addressed her subjects–two ten-year-old girls–
her daughter and me.  Susan rolled her eyes–she’d heard
it all too often.  But Celia’s every word found
an awe-struck audience in me–used to more genteel
pronouncements, or subdued whispers among family women.

Men’s all just little babes--give ‘em a bottle of beer to suck,
some titty and cunt once in a while, and they’re happy.  None
of them understand it takes more’n that to satisfy a woman.  My eyes
slid sideways at Celia’s husband, watching TV just a few feet away.
He seemed oblivious–or maybe he, too, was immune.

Though it was four in the afternoon, Celia was clad in peony-pink
chenille and scuffed slippers.  The ashtray before her on the formica table
heaped with brown butts–one forgotten cigarette snaked into grey ash
as she puffed on another.  The room was choked with smoke–haloing
Celia’s matted curls–more scarlet than they had been a day before.

I’m telling you girls, she proclaimed, squinting her seed-black eyes
against the smoke, since the both of youse got brains, don’t get 
caught up with no guy.  Look at me–married three times, 
livin’ in this dump.  Never got two nickels in my pocket.  That’s
what you get from tying up with some no-account man.

Susan grimaced at me. C’mon, I’ll walk you halfway to your house,
Your mom’s going to be looking for you.  Celia slouched back 
In her chair.  Yeah, go on ahead, sweetie.  Don’t get in no trouble
with your mom.  Them schoolteachers got lots of rules, don’t they?
She guffawed, the laughter becoming a chest-rattling cough. 
Flapped one hand at us as we slid out the door.
                      
Does she really mean all that stuff?  I asked Susan. 
Who knows? Just likes to hear her own voice is all.  Always
ragging on my old man and her second try, Pete the Prick.
Seems okay with this one, though–so far.  We sauntered in silence
for a while. As she turned back home, she tossed over her shoulder,
One thing I know for sure–love is a shitpile. Stay out of it.
And that night as I watched my parents cuddle, all I could
think about was how and when it all would shatter.