One is fifty years old trapped in the body
of a thumb-size two-dimensional girl.
One is shawled in the scent of boiling
tomatoes, garlic and talcum powder.
One is winding in waves drunk on vitamin
juice forever giving birth in her secret red hair.
Lucy Van Pelt pulls the football away.
Lucy Ricardo smokes six packs a day.
Lucy Pappa sits in her wheelchair on her grey stucco porch.
You must kiss her loose cheek.
If you say “lucy,”
these three are who I see,
Lucy pushing the wheelchair—
Lucy, Indian-style, on the soft lap of Lucy.
Lucy doesn’t get it, she couldn’t’ care less
about namesakes, animation, or wheelchairs.
Refracted through time, she walks within diamond.
She smokes a single cigarette upon the rift.
She spins the bottle. She starts the game.