The Lowdown

The Lowdown

Dad knew all about the stars.
Not just their films, but how and who they loved,
the low-down, the action after the director called "Cut!"
the reefer busts, the suicides, the casting couch tumbles,
the stuff the guys in publicity worked hard to hide.
"See her there? She's a lesbian.
Used to be with the one with the hair."
"Him in the green, the one on the horse.
Does it with boys while dressed as a girl."
"She's had her nose done."
"He wears a wig."
"Those two hated each other's guts."

We talked of the picture the evening before,
one I watched at home with thoughts of him.
He said it was hard to hear with so much noise,
the unwelcome drama of footsteps and screens,
no dignity or privacy, if I knew what he meant.
We spoke of what lay behind the scenes,
distracted as a nurse hurried past.
"Is it true," he said, "when you die
your eyes go from brown to blue
like a baby's, only in reverse?"
I shook my head, changed the subject,
made a joke, turned away as he laughed.

Now with memory, the absurd,
turnabout in the final reel,
the low-down: my father's eyes
shining in the darkening ward,
blue that day as ever before.