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?
- ► 2017 (52)
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- My Dead
- Late Summer Poem
- The Girl @theParisReview Says Uncool
- An excerpt from "Mirror, or a Flash in the Pan"
- New Life 5 (Mistranslation of Joseph Brodsky)
- Autobio, for Robin Williams
- The Course of Grief
- 100 Thousand Poets for Change day is September 27!...
- Izdubar (ekphrastic on Carl Jung's Red Book image)...
- Exorcism (Found Poem)
- AWP 2015 Panel: Daughters of Baba Yaga
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