Selected Poems
We Didn’t Know Anything
about a good death, the seven stages of grief, or this better place
where Mom finally alighted. We were suburban Italians, always muddling
through, shellacked with a coat of civility, mortified
by the old ways, those anguished mourners who flung their bodies
at caskets, begged God for answers: why, why, why? No. We kept
our eyes dry, voices hushed, our wails solitary and muffled. We muzzled
our pain, could almost forget it was there. Then the aunts descended
in a shroud of blame, a solemn convoy of snug gray pantsuits, bubbled
hair. They crossed themselves, again and again, pointed fingers at Dad,
who’d moved their sister long ago to this Midwestern prairie,
far from her roots, and that’s why she smoked herself to death.
Aunt Sophia sobbed like a child: my sister, my sister, refused
the casseroles, the cakes, spurned the solicitous neighbors.
Get her out of here, grumbled Dad, who leashed the dog, circled
the block, again and again, until the tired mutt planted his paws
on the curb, as if to plead: enough! enough! After that, he crept
under the bed, remained there all week.
Published in Poet Lore
Tuesday at Peebles Department Store
It’s Senior Discount Day and I am trying
on Pilates pants, the kind with sexy mesh
netting on each thigh and so what
if I have to tug them on, and so what
if my flesh bulges a bit, or sags a bit
because I am suddenly seventy
and I am not supposed to care
about such things because, surely,
by now, I am supposed to be mature,
a model of sanity and wisdom; vanity
should be a relic of the past, yet I suspect
there are traces that remain, stubborn,
like the last globs of peanut butter
that cling to the bottom of the jar.
Published in Third Wednesday
A Narrative Poet Lost in the Lyric Moment
Led through the bolted doors of Memory Care, I pass those who wander
through this uncharted, dreaded abyss.
The looming storm, wild, willful, incessant…
She waits in a winged chair below the chandelier. She wears frayed
slacks, a sweater stained with the remains from lunch. She clutches
a small bag stuffed with tissues, crumpled notes, bits of hard candy.
The dark, trembling waters beckon…
We sit in silence. I hold her hand. Our ties are long and tender.
I linger.
Waves pummel the lifeboats that drift on the edge of the shore….
She looks bewildered, but not distressed. I want to imagine
her floating in the loft of her broken mind where long-ago stories
are sheltered.
We are caught in this avalanche of ache, this dried up sea of broken glass.
Published in The Broadkill Review
Old Woman Sleeps
On cool cotton sheets you shift
your worn-out limbs never sure
which partner will own you tonight.
These are potent dreams, dreams
where ghosts of old lovers linger,
many long dead or just missing.
Some once cradled you close
like rare and polished gold, spoke
unholy words. Others, bloodless
and tired, folded on your sheets.
So many lovers, lovers who faded,
lovers who wandered, no longer
craved your bed. You lost count
along the way. Now you sleep
the sleep of one weary from years
of coupling. Tonight, you slip
into the pure silk of solitude.
Published in the Pittsburgh Poetry Review
The Greatest Unease
Flying over deep water in the inscrutable dark. We are doomed. I hear the pilot slur his words. My neck is stiff. I feel a headache coming on. My legs begin to cramp. The anxiety pills make me nauseous. The line for the loo snakes down the aisle. The plane begins to jerk. It gets worse. I grip the arm rests, chew my lips, take stock of my life, fears, anxieties. I try to believe in a supreme being, a higher power, whatever. I pray hard. My prayer is futile. We are going down. The plane crashes in the Atlantic. Divers find and collect the bodies. Family and friends begin to mourn. My death is announced in an obituary accompanied by a flattering photo (my hair at its loveliest). Cards, flowers and casseroles flood the house. A celebration of life goes on for hours with an inspired playlist of songs and readings. Hundreds show up. Many cry, share poignant memories. Some women, dressed to the nines, comfort my husband for an awfully long time. No matter. I am now adrift in a vast consciousness, floating in a bubble of raw energy. I suppose I am at peace––but oh, what I would give to return to my life, its uneasy turbulence, its precious, beautiful mess.
Published in River Teeth Journal/Beautiful Things
Thinking About Death at the Dollar Tree
On New Year’s Eve day, I find myself
at the Dollar Tree buying a year’s worth
of sympathy cards. I have reached the age
of exits: might as well stock up. I shuffle
through the cards, avoid those that vow
eternal life, reassure us the dead are now
in a better place. I shun cards coated
with daisies, sunsets, butterflies. I think
of the dead. All those I once loved.
I think of old lovers now gone: David, Dan,
Ray, Charlie, Ted…so prosaic. Why
didn’t I choose more exotic partners:
Julio, Francois, Abdul? I turn back
to the cards, reject those that ramble,
assume a devastating grief. Who can know
another’s pain?
My time here is up. I choose my cards:
simple, restrained. I hand the clerk a twenty
leave the store, prepared for another year
of endings.
Published in Gargoyle Magazine
The Loneliness of Supper
We ate in shifts at the formica table. Mom, always worried
about her weight, settled in with her typical diet: steak
and iceberg lettuce drizzled with vinegar and Wesson oil.
Kid brother’s meal was mobile and quick just before
Little League or whatever he did. Dad worked late.
Ate elsewhere. And I, the fussy eater, nibbled on pizza
pockets warmed in the toaster or plain tuna on Wonder Bread
as I paged through Modern Screen and Motion Picture
and imagined the movie stars aligned at supper, dining
with cloth napkins and real plates, awash in witty
conversation where someone, anyone, asked How was your day?
Published in The Delmarva Review
San Francisco
Adrift in my twenties, I dropped anchor
at a jelly bean house perched high on a slope,
stroked by fog, straddling salty bay bridges.
Stripped to my senses, I strolled into North Beach
cafés to hear Puccini crooned by paunchy old men
in spaghetti-stained aprons, sipped Pinot
on bare-bodied beaches, spent soulful afternoons
caressing Irish coffee at the Buena Vista,
flushed nights at fern bars downing drinks
under fuzzy lights. I plunged on two wheels
through the Presidio, sucked in the sea mist,
gazed into open-air bars jammed with wiry, wired
men’s men. I clung to the margins of cable cars,
leaned into the sultry curves of fabled streets.
The City was on edge, caught between the disco beat,
and the hushed unease of a deadly new virus.
Yet, I lingered, hoping to land on solid ground.
Published in Philadelphia Stories