Fifty years ago, a date with beautiful Bemudian Mary Anne,
her skin shone like Maria’s. We held hands
for the first time, watched Sharks and Jets
dance their violence. We did not know the ending.
When Tony died we stayed long after everyone left,
cried and squeezed hands till the usher shooed us out.
I don’t know where Mary Anne is now.
She married a cop, maybe his last name was Krupke?
But tonight, decades later, nothing is funny.
As my wife of 47 years and I watch the Jets and Sharks,
we know the movie was shot to convince young men
to stop killing each other, hope for a brighter future.
Now in myriad communities—drive-byes in privileged suburbs,
gang violence rituals, guns match funerals,
kids learn to die in schools, rock concert massacres,
churches kneel before bullets, non-stop unrelenting tears.
In our towns, the guns come and go—Romeos killing Romeos.
Originally published in Euphemism Magazine