Tosca

My sister held on to our old turntable
   and all the old records we listened to
through the long Italian opera

of our childhood. So tonight
   we sit in the living room with some wine
and Puccini, as the needle scratches

the black door of the past, the air comes to life
   with that lovely, cornball melodrama,
and our father is sitting in his chair,

ice cubes clinking in his scotch,
   and our mother is in the kitchen
trying to be quiet, trying not to disturb

Maria Callas as she explains
   to Tito Gobbi that she has lived for art
and she has lived for love, but it’s hard

to fry pork chops and dice an onion
   without making a certain amount of noise,
and pretty soon my father is shouting at her,

he’s trying to listen to the goddamn music
   for Christ’s sake, could she for once
show some goddamn respect,

and our mother says nothing,
   it’s just the same old argument
between ghosts, after all-the music

won’t let them sleep—
   though it has my sister in tears
and even Tosca has begun to weep.

Copyright by George Bilgere