December 2024

Today I think I am healed. I do not want
what I do not have. Even the lover who sleeps
across town—one of my hairs trapped behind his ear—
feels near to me. Sure, my mother did not hold me enough,
too tempted by the specter of satiety only alcohol can bring.
But I do not resent her. Even she is wild and shining
in the palace of memory…

Is this the last time I’ll admire the guys
in their neon-yellow slickers, guiding us
to our parking spots before we head up
 two flights to the passenger deck,
to the cafeteria where a man in a black derby
and black suspenders nods and smiles
 as he nibbles popcorn? In honor of this maybe
last trip to San Juan Island, the last time
I hear…

If upon me in my garden, I mouth up sun and die of some bitch
seasonally snuffing my golden light, then omen me an open grave
and a night knife. Cue up the dead, nasty grinders. Swish me in a jug
of haunt rubbish. For fuck sure make me dogbody ravage against dirt’s
invisible fence. And while I might, in my life, have put up fists…