My Dead

My husband lost his shirt at cards; insolvent, he then drowned
in slick Cancun on our honeymoon; years now, it still astounds
how fast, how fast, a living hell can turn a life around.

My godchild told me pointedly if she were to attempt
to die that she'd succeed at once, a word that doctor kept,
and took a hundred opiates and drifted to her death.

My punk rock pimp, a crush of mine, loved theater and art.
He sodomized and strangled a young man who broke his heart,
then packed a bag of bondage toys and left for foreign parts.

Before her death, my mother called and calmly sat me down;
if she could do it all again, she'd have no children, none.
She lived her life in anger and, despite us, all alone.

My father drank and slept around; he was a well-liked guy.
He said I love you once to me the night before he died
Was that a feeling come too late, or panic in his eyes?