Poems by Theresa Ilardi

WOMAN WITH THE BOTTLE

I’m the woman with the bottle, sitting in the street with no place to go. That is what you see, if you even look that closely before quickly turning away.

I was my mother’s baby in pretty lace dresses from her sewing machine, ribboned pigtails and shiny patent leather shoes.

Some say I was Daddy’s little girl, but hey, let’s not go there.

Brought shame onto my family— people shaking their heads, babies having babies, they said. I graduated Junior High, eight months full.

My son’s mother: happy and young making bottles, changing diapers, playing peek-a-boo after school. Not everyone thought that was too cool.

Became my husband’s wife: black eyes and bruises overnight. Oh that? Just slipped down the stairs. Yeah, and right into someone’s fist. He kept my belly filled, three more hostages into a house filled with rage and alcohol.

Uh-oh! BCW is knocking on my door. He can put it down for appearance’s sake. Me, I’m shaking like a leaf. One day at a time, fuck that! Can’t you see I need a drink?!

Detoxes, rehabs, did them all. If nothing changes, nothing changes. I know who my true friends are: José Cuervo, Bud the Wiser, King the Cobra and let’s not forget kind old Georgi.

So now you see me on the street, the woman with the bottle. Dear God, perhaps it’s time to become— plain old me.

Theresa Ilardi

THE MORNING LIGHT

The morning light shines through my window. I am alone, surrounded by one-hundred-and-twenty-nine other homeless souls.

How did I get here? What the fuck happened? And has the shit really been going on for four damned years? None of it is really clear.

No time to be on my bed and dwell. I’ve cried myself dry; no more tears are left. I am alive, by some miracle of God; it sure wasn’t my doing.

I am alive, becoming vibrant. Oh the things I can do: visit my babies, make a meeting, write a story, read a book, see a movie. or engage in a sweet kiss.

My eyes are opened now, with a different view. No longer a prisoner of fear, grief, and hate, I am opening up brand new gates.

Theresa Ilardi

BALANCE

Jimmy Kilos was gone and had left his girl, Cassie with the smoking gun, so to speak. Everyone from two-bit dealers to wise guys in Brooklyn and local cops to the FBI had questions.

And there were so many questions: Where did Jimmy bury his bodies? Where did he keep his stash of drugs? And most importantly, where was all of Jimmy’s money? What none of them knew was that Jimmy had left something very important behind—his seed. Cassie was two months pregnant.

Cassie stood in the mirror watching the tears roll down her face. She couldn’t handle things anymore—she felt all alone in the world. Her parents were dead, he brother had disappeared, and now Jimmy had abandoned her. Fuck it. If the morphine and the alcohol didn’t kill her, she’d bleed to death from her slashed wrists. Nothing mattered no more.

The phone rang. It was Caruso, that narc who had never let up on Jimmy. He was worried for her safety and tried to talk her into giving up everything she knew and going into the Witness Protection Program. Cassie had some kind of incoherent conversation with him and hung up the phone. By morning, any concern for her well-being would be moot. She passed out.

Cassie awoke to flashing lights, cold night air, and being strapped to a gurney. Hysterical, she began to fight back. How dare they stop her!? She was almost there. They restrained her and she passed out again. The next time Cassie awoke, she was in a dark room laying down, strapped to a bed in a four-point restraint with her wrists bandaged. A replay of the events flashed through her mind and she moaned softly, “My baby.”

“Your baby’s fine, no thanks to you!”

Cassie lifted her head and could see Caruso sitting in a folding chair next to her bed.

“I didn’t lose it, then?”

“No,” he answered, “But it came mighty close for the both of you. You would really throw it all away for a piece of shit like Jimmy Kilos?”

“What’s it to you?” she snapped. Then, seeing his wedding ring, she asked him, “Don’t you have a wife to go home to instead of getting into my business?”

“My wife?” Caruso laughed harshly. Then his eyes got very sad.

“I’ll tell you about my wife. She died of cancer last year. About three years ago, we decided to have a baby. The only problem was, she couldn’t conceive. Before we could work on that situation, a cancer began in her womb. It spread like fire throughout her whole body. For two years, she fought like a tiger, but it finally took her.

“You lay here, young and healthy and with the gift of life inside. What makes you so free to try and throw away these gifts God has bestowed on you?”

Theresa Ilardi