Tuesday, December 22, 2015

memories from an unhappy new year

unbidden broken things slide surreptitiously towards the surface
loose thoughts slip knots and bubble upward,
old wounds cry fresh blood

I remember the tense ring of necessity I wrapped around my chest to drive us home,
I remember the long, empty quiet afterwards, as the room darkened around us

I remember my decision not to stab him, I remember regretting it.

I remember tearful phone calls, and drunk texts, and that quiet hug from a stranger,
(he smelled like patchouli, I think)

I broke beyond reason the night before the funeral,
I drank and drank and fell into one folly after another,
I made a hole in the wall above the place my son would much later sleep.

That red-faced fuck wouldn't honor her final wishes,

I mixed the soundtrack for her viewing.
How could she possibly be honored without songs with the word fuck in them?
I made someone who sucked cry at her viewing, too, I think she would've laughed,
but of course all her blood was cold and switched for formaldehyde.


I remember our long awkward ride to her grave, with a stranger in a blue Cadillac,
I used to pick her up at almost every meeting.
I picked her up one last time in a coffin.

She could throw a jab harder than most right crosses.
(I've been decked with a lot of right crosses.)
She drank whiskey like water.
She made me a drink once, that tasted like a chemical burn.
She had wicked eyes and a wide smile.

She died for kindness.
She lived for laughter.


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