aayoungi blame robert frost
his cold methodology
his need to fill disused graveyards with
death’s dazzling white snow glamour
a slow creep crystalline across
an already shattered windshield
i blame robert frost
as i cannot blame
my father
my friend
or an absent god
for them forgetting
they had promises to keep
happy Father’s Day, dad
you were
oh, sylvia
daddy and ted
weren’t
worth
it
my oven has died
as my buoyant soul has no need for it
.
pulled to the middle of the kitchen floor
an asphyxia case in need of cpr
gasping
of a burned out ignitor
.
mr. repairman
is an hourn’half delinquent
of his 9 to noon service window
.
he made me miss my lunch date
.
i stand hand on hip
in a dress
from a November 1954 edition
of vogue magazine
my whimsy contained
by a tea length line of buttons
concealing
a cat on a hot tin roof southern slip
because i hold a firm belief
the maytag man should be met
with a combination of elizabeth taylor
and donna reed
.
sylvias’s ghost stands behind me
eyebrow raised commenting
“good thing you had no plans to make one of my dishes tonight”
i call her a tramp
we laugh like conspiring sisters
.
besides being a great name
for a punk band
suicide tourism
is a growing trend
in switzerland
germans
brits
and americans
flocking to the monstrance
of neutrality
and lax euthanasia legislation
with a penchant for hiding
nazi-looted art
to eat chocolates laced
with sodium phenobarbital
“going to switzerland”
has become a euphemism
for offing oneself in the UK
(God, how I adore my saucy British cousins.)
Isn’t it funny that in allegedly-civilized
free nations
their countrymen
don’t even have the liberty
of choosing a dignified death?
*elected officials take note
when the power grid fails
we’ll be coming
to eat you
it was a sunny summer afternoon
i don’t remember exactly when
but i must have been around 3
because we still lived in the little farmhouse
on ellison ridge
where uncle louis hung himself
the day felt the same way i feel
when i hear the cowboy junkies sing
sweet jane
lush and southern
dad was sitting with me
at the white picnic table
he built with his hands
i climbed on top of the table
to be closer to the large overhanging tree limbs
telling him i wanted to hang from them like a monkey
he hopped to his feet and i remember the jangle of keys and change coming from his pocket
his watch flashed in the sunlight when he picked me up and put me on his shoulders
then we walked to the lowest sturdy branch
within my reach and he said
“Grab on a-hold…”
i remember giggling with glee
as i latched on
he slowly crouched down and turned
to face me
freeing my swinging legs to dangle
he never took his hand off my shoe
“Daddy, let me swing!”
“I’m not lettin’ go-ah you, little girl…”
i held on for as long as i could but
my hands began to lose their grip
i clutched at him with my chubby legs
as he caught me in his arms
all i saw were his smiling dark eyes and glimmering green leaves
he was dead within three years
from kentucky fried booze and pills
and i’ve spent everyday thereafter reaching for him in various ways
uncle louis’ ghost isn’t the only one still hanging in that tree
isn’t it fun to think
someone may have snapped
the last widgets of your iPhone together
right before jumping to their death
i just explained
to my 17 year old son
who kurt and courtney were
and how
somehow
in 1994
that meant everything
there are many things
we must forsake
for the sake of our children
the moment they are conceived
we must bid farewell to vice
the freedom of irresponsibility
we even give up
the luxury of suicide
my father taught me that
there is nothing that will drill a chasm
in the soul of a child
like your last act on earth
forever ringing
i didn’t love you enough to stay alive
thank you for that lesson
on behalf of my sons
dad
if not
i would be just another dead thing
floating in the ohio river
we sew ourselves
to the expectations of others
with our bank accounts
towel racks
and arteries
faces melting
into an unreflecting pool
of lost identity
then spend our lives
doing the math
on the height of bridges
child support
the poundage of a squandered life
and how many refills remain