More on: Poetry

I held the glass I’d only just emptied
Up to my nose: I wanted another, and another,

Of the angels I slaughtered to get here
I miss cigarettes the most.

Your children drive away and the river runs dry.

God bless the man whose brow greases
the glass when he naps or despairs.

Once, night floated for ten or twelve seconds
on daybreak, following a sleepless night,
with Lydia, my cat of nineteen years,

in pain from renal failure, beside me….

And what of the tongue
Too long in the silky purse
Of the coveted spot, slurping up
Every pearl?

Every year, I surprise myself 
with how bad I am at most of the things 
I want to be good at: gardening
and happiness, mainly. 

As many times
as the doctors look,

my good breast mirrors back 
nothing but good.

The mountains encircled him
like elders less stern
than his father the pastor
who warned him that whatever
gave him pleasure was a sin,

even sledding…and, later, painting.