Silver

The sandals I stole from Kmart.
The lighter you used on the ivy,

the dumpster. The padlock on the
refrigerator after Sara's fight with

Mom. The polish Sara dabbed
on her nails, and Mom's seashells

in the top shelf basket. The pit bull's
collar as he dove against his chain, little

grunts, trying to get at us, our arms full
of oranges. Your hair, after she sprayed

it with sparkles for the fourth of July party.
The life guard's capped tooth as he lifted

you from the pool. The rings clotting your
fingers as they tapped and tapped. The sun

after you dared me to stare for a full minute,
the shining hole left in everything after.

Lines Excised from the 5th Poem About Your Death

Then you said, I'm not really your mother. How, when you took off your shirt, I saw your black-winged bra cupping your freckled breasts. The Wednesday when you told me you couldn't answer my call last night because you had someone's cock in your mouth. The script you wrote for me for valium, so you could get some yourself. The part where you kept your fingers under your eyes to stop the mascara from running. How your hair got in my mouth on the ferris wheel. How you were supposed to engaged, but the obituary said single. The part where you were a pole dancer. The part where you fucked the hospital janitor. The pink lampshade with the feather trim. Your son's pencil drawings of rats on your refrigerator. How you cried every time in the same monotone when your boyfriends broke up with you. The matching bitchy cats under your sofa, your sink. The poster of a pastel garden just above your toilet that appeared to be painted by an extremely depressed grandmother. The part where your pregnant patient hung herself. How you counted to three in a voice as sweet as any hypnotist to get your son to put his video games away. How he has your enormous bronze eyes, the eyes of a busy victim. The sickly yellow light above your stove, how it made us all look bloodless, dying. How we looked in that polaroid from the party, curled up on the black velvet sofa, the white of your big teeth matching the backs of my hands. The dislocated, sudden shadows a flash makes. How in all my dreams of you, you are wearing a yellow flowered scarf around your head, although you never wore a scarf. How you swoop slowly down from turbulent clouds as if you are riding a floating dinner plate. What you really said to me. How you made me my first martini, and I was disappointed. The part where you came on to my psychiatrist and he turned you down. How your insides ached afterwards, as if you'd been hit with a shovel in the stomach. How I tried to pretend to sympathize. The drugs we shared on that couch. The kiss we nearly shared on that couch. How you said you were worried about the stereo speakers, Is sound coming out, or going in? Are we being recorded? How I told you to close your eyes and it would soon get better. How you wanted to ride the bumper cars three times in a row. How you hit my car so hard my elbow dislocated. How it didn't, eventually, get better; none of it.

Late Burial

the small sound of an old radio, some music, words I
don't understand, a nostalgic howl with lots of brass
and acoustic guitar

The scene where the car is buried by snow, all the cars
are buried in snow, the road just a faint dent

the phone ringing, going to voice mail, the phone ringing
in someone's jacket pocket, the jacket buried in a pile
of jackets at a party

the rip along your cheek, badly sewn, a scar like a series
of faint pale staples, it was a motorcycle, you say,
or a drunk ex, you don't quite remember

the leather jacket hanging from a hook on a door,
the lining reeks armpit, vanilla perfume, sick cat,
ripped inside the pocket

the wind makes a small sound, rattles snow from beech
branches, the houses across the street suddenly veiled,
the man scraping with a shovel pauses and shakes off his hat

Sometimes I feel Nostalgia
for Places I was Miserable


Everyone operates out of fear. With her
hands, she opens up a hole in the earth

near the roots of the big maple. She lays
a silent bluebird in the hole, pats it.

In the movie version, she places a dried
geranium over the bird's eye -- its head

is tipped to one side, so only the left
eye is showing. Are you feeling

especially needy today? She brushes
leaves over the hole, then rubs

her palms on the thighs of her jeans.
In the movie version, she's wearing

a patchwork skirt. Does this mean
everyone should be forgiven?



Above, the fabulous Bob (not me) at Bowery Poetry.

Didi painted a picture of me!



and I wrote a poem, again. I should show you the first draft -- it's so different, it's amazing. My mind tends to wander and things get weirder and weirder.
It's for a homework assignment for Joanna Furman's class -- a poem in one sentence. I actually did two of these.



At the Second Accident


I leave the engine running, the driver's
side door open, and I don't float --

I sink, the water not as cold
as I imagined, but brown and golden

underneath, filled with specks and slow
moving leaves and things that sparkle

and dart and I hear shouting and I'm
lifted by my ponytail and I'm out

of the water and you have your arms
and a blanket draped around me

and I think we're alone, but flashbulbs
keep going off, and I'm apologizing for

something I can't remember, and
you say, it's alright, that's what
credit cards are for, anyway.

My First Death: The High Window


White moths rise like steam: dawn
bright as a headache and I'm still

breathing in a birdcage of gristle, tendon --
lawn clippings up my nose, whole except

for an absent molar, my brother dancing
his red yo-yo above my face, singing

his song about the bees, the one that repeats,
the one he always gets wrong.

On Dying in the Kings County ER

You slip from your wheelchair
to the floor, it's too dark outside
in the tiny windows, too late at
night, the sky all one dark pupil,
and the coffee machine
at the nurses' station is broken.  

An orderly kicks your foot, perhaps
she hears a sigh from somewhere
else, thinks it's you, believes you
are still breathing.

Dead, the smudged linolemn
is cool along your cheek.  You
don't mind it so much. The last six months,
the stroke made everything a pain
in the ass; your fingers refused
to unpeel from pencils,
the smirk in the garbageman's eye
made you throw books, and your children
kept switching their names.

Now you have no name.  Your fingers
and toes get colder, a peculiar heaviness
fixes you to the floor but your muscles
no longer ache, your bowels no longer
sing their bombastic, unhappy tune.

Somewhere, a TV high on a wall
is playing "Cheers" and you finally
feel your skin brightening, lifting
to the tempo of the laugh track.

A man with a dark hat is touching
your chair, a nurse is knelt at your
wrist, but you are hot now, feeling
the sun as you did that day

at the beach in Coney Island:
a new bikini, a new strip of skin
burning at the top of your hips
but you were beautiful and you
knew it, wringing your wet hair
into some smiling boy's face, laughing
and shrieking as he grabbed your arm, and

it's that kind of burning now, that kind of
joy, as the room glows beneath you and
more people gather, and more attention
comes, all too late to tie you down.

_________

I have a feeling this is going to be rewritten a LOT, but I haven't posted even a draft in forever.

The Death Card

while I was waiting for you
I let a stranger in,
he rang the buzzer at the same
time I expected you, but he was

shorter, squatter, and he
wore a blue uniform with a baseball cap --
I couldn't get a good look at his eyes,
he took all my trash away

though I begged him not to,
clung to his elbow with
all my weight, promised
obscenities into the side
of his throat, wept torch
songs into his ears

he didn't speak except
to be courteous,
called me "ma'am",
said "thank you"
but not "please"
and when he was done

my kitchen had regained its shape
there were shelves and faucets and chairs,
cups and measuring spoons and glasses
with daisies painted at the rims

the stinking bags
of rubbish that had piled above
my head, had blocked the window
and soiled the blue lace curtains

vanished like a magician's half-dollar
all wet and brown stains scrubbed away
the scent of rotten cabbage and spoiled
meat replaced with faint chemical pine

the room was so uncomplicated
so full of white clear space
I was clean, empty, desolate,
inconsolable