aayoungthe hindu woman
avoids the utterance
of her husband’s name
because it is believed
each time she speaks his name
it brings him closer to death
i ask no forgiveness for
feeling silk wedding knots
wrapped around my throat
my pilgrimage to india
and saying your name in my sleep
he asked me
what had become
of the man
who lived
in my earlier poems
the person he referred to
as
“my kerouac”
i skipped the speech
about not all writing
being exposition
and explained to him
my tragic character
had earned the right
to keep his name and sickening notoriety
but not the comparison
his poetry was
a joke
juxtaposed to the beat god
the only quality they shared
was misogyny
no really
he pressed
what became of him
my shoulders and tone relented
replying
he’s fucking dead
just like kerouac
and every other
lesser
imitation