Two Poems

Cesare’s Circles

Cesare was no taller than I.

Unlike me, he was darkly handsome.

But, thinking back, he had the kind of face,

at fifteen, that you could picture

when he got older.

I didn’t know that, then, in Geometry.

I sat taking notes,

but it wasn’t as in History.

In Geometry notes were numbers.

The more notes I took, the more lost I got.

At night at home, my father leaning over me,

Do you understand? Yes, I get it, I lied,

just to get him out of my hair.

Cesare had dark, wavy hair.

I feared my compass, with its sharp points,

I used to make circles. Cesare’s circles

earned him A’s.  He was from Italy.

He wasn’t like others, who said, I’m Italian,

but were really Italian-American.

He was the real thing, and a brain.

He never had to take notes, that I recall.

The arcs and circles all in his head,

test-time he sat with the compass,

the ruler, pencil, and paper,

and made straight A’s.

He was attracted to a girl, Marilyn,

who also had dark hair,

and was short like Cesare and me.

To me she was nothing to look at,

but he liked her because, like him,

she was smart.

I’m not sure if she took any notes.

Maybe Cesare took a few,

but if he did, they were very few.

Mostly I recall being at the table

with my father, more lost than in class,

where I daydreamed.

Our teacher wore a bow tie,

and dark-framed glasses, like Marilyn.

A fiction writer friend

also had him for Geometry

and said he was really good.

I just recall Cesare was his brightest

student, somehow I picked up on that,

though Marlyn too made A’s.

Maybe she was the brightest.

All I know, I took notes.

At home, at the table I nodded my head,

now I get it. Those compass points

could take out an eye.

Wiretap

In November 2004, Scott Peterson was convicted of two counts of murder.

Amber Frey was the State’s key witness.

On the telephone, I heard, “Amber.”

I played my part

in the conviction of the killer of an eight-

months pregnant woman, her torso

fished out of the bay.  I played my part

in the conviction of a monster who’d

picked up my daughter from day care,

who said he could care for us in every way,

who sat well-groomed in court as I took

the witness stand and lay my hand

on the Bible. Who was led out in cuffs

as I spoke with Laci’s parents,

her friends, and Modesto cops

who’d asked me to catch a killer:

He’d gone out fishing in his new boat.

He was at the Eiffel Tower

He wanted the focus on finding Laci.

In court Sharon, Laci’s mother,

asked him if her daughter

knew she was dying. That last call,

the anger kept in, “Goodbye, Scott.”