For the Beauty of Winona Ryder
Is that really you, Winona, wandering the aisles
of this 24-hour Duane Reade on West 58th below
Columbus Circle where Ferlinghetti watched
the retired ballerinas walking their dogs in the park
in the winter dusk. Gliding through the cough and cold
section, you look the part, your body fluid
in its movements, bird-boned, slight. Your days
as Hollywood’s angsty ingenue behind you now,
no longer the première sujet. If it is you, Winona,
cleverly disguised as yourself, your secret is
safe with me. I won’t ask for an autograph or selfie.
I think we’re the same age. We’ve grown up together.
Now we’re both “mid-career,” which always makes me
picture a car careening off a cliff. The halfway point
of any long flight is the hardest. Winona, I know
you’ve had your ups and downs. The fans trigger-happy
in their adoration and reproach. I’ve seen the interviews.
Noni, Noni, Noni! Strangers screaming your name
behind the barricades: It’s a certain kind of spooky,
but you can’t complain. No one likes a malcontent.
When I fall, I pick myself up, keep walking
as though nothing happened. When you stumble,
news vans line the block. Tomorrow, early,
I’ll claim my conference pass at the Javits Center—
I’ve colleagues who collect them, put them on display
in their offices, dangling from multicolored lanyards.
You study a package of lozenges, adjusting distance,
squinting to bring the ingredients into focus, but oh,
those eyes, those dark, glittering eyes—Joan of Arc.
Where will you go after this, will you drive around
all night in your Mercedes, listening to Achtung Baby?
Winona, we need you now more than ever,
this world is broken in ways we never bargained for.
Nobody asks What’s your damage? anymore.
—Steve McOrmond, Reckon (Brick Books), 2018.