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As to my clothes

A country that descends from
the agony of slaves and immigrants
These people—it seems you can
rarely find your footing with them

There’s a hard core to our
selfishness like a dull ache
We don’t love nature when we fail
to see the little she loves us back

This doesn’t end well
The promises you kept, like a
love no longer there, even after all
these years—might you still hunger?

I remember that body,
that mind of hers— her artist’s chops
If you like it, asks the sale’s script,
will you buy it?

Days of pressure, sleeplessness,
betrayals, ultimatums, the erotic,
the exotic loves we lose and the
sweetness of the loves we praise

Said the old comedian
“I don’t dance anymore
or fall down funny
My vocal chords are still good

but my body is broken”
We live with secrets revealed
only between the boundaries
of our densities and surface

Dad would say if you told him of a
pain, say, in your shoulder or knee that you
could have a cold in your shoulder or
knee—Dad had a Ph.D.

but it wasn’t in medicine
“I told you that’s a very bad symptom
for you, Mrs. Weinberg,” her oncologist said
You were supposed to call me immediately!”

The doctor isn’t convivial and doesn’t
seek conviviality in others
“As to my clothes when I die,”
Dad wrote, “get rid of ‘em”

 

 

 

-October 10, 2015-