Rita Hayworth: Double Agent

In the follicles sits a dangerously coiled
and coarse nature, from which the genus
springs. So the body’s genius
zapped with a year’s worth
of electrolysis. She becomes
a G.I.’s dream by moving the border
that frames the face, by deflowering the name
and firing the island extra
who made the dance number
a risk. Still, after ions have cooled,
they invent helpless swine
to be rendered (“Good evening, Mr. Farrell,
you’re looking very beautiful.”)
at the spit. Or place her
at the ticket booth of a Chinese theatre,
speaking perfect Mandarin. So
much of her choreographed
or dubbed, winking at you
through a ruffled excess. But what’s more natural
to a bilingual girl from Brooklyn
than to mouth her country’s script? Or insinuate
herself into its defenses?
She throws her head back, and on a long
black glove slowly tugs: “Mame did a dance
called the kichee- coo. That’s the thing
that slew McGrew.” And though
it’s Gilda we want to bed, we catch a glimpse
of something familiar from behind a curtain
of hair. It’s Margarita Cansino as the song
ends and the striptease continues. We volunteer
to lend a hand when she confesses, “I’m not
very good at zippers.”