Now I sit watching the shitty night unfolding

as fast as it can,

knowing I won’t be holding anything in my hand tonight

but another drink and a bottle of Percodan,

daring myself to do it one more time.

PASSAGE

for Allen Ginsberg

Sunflowers beside the railroad tracks,

sunflowers giving back the beauty God gave you

to one lonely traveler

who spies you from a train window

as she passes on her way to another train station.

She wonders if she were like you

rooted to your bit of earth

would she be happy,

would she be satisfied

to have the world glide past and not regret it?

For a moment, she thinks so,

then decides that, no, she never could

and turns back to her book of poetry,

remembering how hard it was to get here

and that flowers have their places as people do

and she cannot simply exchange hers for another,

even though she wants it.

That’s how it is.

Her mother told her.

Now she believes her,

although she wishes she didn’t.

At fifty-three, she feels the need

to rebel against the inevitable winding down.

She already feels it in her bones,

feels artery deterioration, and imagines

cancerous indications on medical charts

she hopes will never be part of her life,

as she turns back to the window

to catch the last glimpse of the sunflowers

that sent her thoughts on a journey

from which she knows she will never return,

only go on and on

and then just go.

LULLABY

Run my child. Don’t delay.

The beast is beating on the door

with rifle butt and fists.

Soon his boots are stomping

on the floor, as if he’s cold

and trying to warm his feet.

He hasn’t had a thing to eat for days

and tears bread from your sister’s hand

before he shoots her in the head

and smashes all the dishes.

His mouth full, he chews

as he ascends the stairs

two at a time and finds me

calmly sitting on the bed.

“Waiting for me?” he asks,

as he hurls a stone

that strikes me in the face,

breaking my jaw,

then proceeds to set fire to my body,

after which he walks back downstairs and outside.

The hound howls as the neighbors

steal what’s left of us.

We’re dead afterall.

Who cares whether or not we suffered

or even that they once called us friends,

because in the end they agree

we got what we deserved for being born.

I hoped you would survive,

but you die anyway beside the road

your body frozen to the earth

until spring,

when your bones are discovered by the hound

who buries them with other bones

he’s collected as he roams the countryside

masterless now and wild.

He’s forgotten he once was companion to a child,

who used to scratch him between the ears.

Now that spot is inflamed

and he shakes his head and rubs it against a tree

beside the stream where we picnicked