I’m still worried I’m not cut out for this. I’m stuck in what I know. Roland was drowned and I can’t let it go. Dan was hit by an 18-wheeler. Ty too. Tabatha overdosed. Paul was shot. There were suicides. So many.
I was not an infant in a wicker basket. I was not a victim of the 80’s. I paid no attention then. I was teenage nihilist raging
the moment Nietzsche got ahold of Aphrodite a thousand swords fell from the sky
What the fuck
The house moving slowlyThis morning. Photos on the walls -Suddenly dissatisfied.
The chosen language and cadence of the work hefts off the usual pomp of poetry, without leaving any of the poetics behind.
Until it was stenciled by snow at midnight,
I hadn’t noticed the statue on Washington street.
Oh, look. A June bug is trapped
in the screen door. Buzz saw scent.
Plastic and old dust. In the yard
a laid-back mourning dove coos.
I feel queasy thinking about what it took to get here
beyond the silent weeping we kept from each other
waiting for news that even one of the treatments had worked.
I saw her room for the first time through a blistering hangover.
She was not in bed. Somewhere I heard a tea kettle.