Author: poetryfest

What remains is
the papa tree—
the one we planted
together from a
pinecone I found
on the ground

no one, but you
believed it would
actually grow

and after you passed
it finally began to
sprout from the earth

a sign that you were
still here
a legacy of us—
something I could
remember you by

What remains is
the collection of
small wooden chairs
we would line
up like a train

the ones we would
place all my
stuffed animals on

I always saved you
a seat in front

you never complained
about how you didn’t
really fit
or about how long I’d
wish to play conductor

instead, you smiled and laughed
allowing my imagination
to travel us around the world

What remains is
the maroon
rocking chair
the one we would
fall asleep in after
a busy day of play

that feeling of safety
that feeling of happiness
that feeling of love

What remains is
the yellow school bus

the one you couldn’t wait
to watch me get off after
a day of school

and I remember
that first day
of kindergarten,
taking the bus,
seeing the house
and realizing you
would not be there
to welcome me home

I remember looking
towards the papa tree,
then towards the window
where I saw my stuffed animals
lined up and waiting
and finally, towards the front door
where the rocking chair was

before I realized
all that remained
was the mere
memory of you

Blackened tears pour
from blues, plop into
my pores from a lash
poking my pupil.
I am popping

my knuckles, popping
Mom’s patience- she kicks
my shins in the pews. Peer
over the blubberers, hear
the pastor’s praise
for the person who was
apathetic at best, ignore
the pinch of pain. I am

painted pretty for
my parents, pulled
to the parish against
my pleasing. I put
on pumps instead
of boots because beauty
is better than improper
posture. I didn’t

paint my lashes with
waterproof ink- I bathed
them in lush carbon.

I can see the hurt in your eyes,
It is hard to tell the truth from the lies
You have to trust me.
You’ve been mistreated and beaten down
You’re killing me

I’m not going anywhere
Let me show you how much I care
I will protect you and love you
Marks fade no more pain
You’re killing me

I always have depended on – Tobacco
something to remove – Alcohol
me from Earth – Sedatives
periodically.

Trifling fixes, secret
shots on the run with
Mentos chasers close behind.
Hardworking, Ambien entitled.
Never fully dysfunctioning
means never having to stop.
Photos, plaques and
LinkedIn – artifacts of
a life well edited.

Don’t believe the stereotypes.
Dependence is not for the lazy.
Getting just right, not too much,
requires planning, focus and deception.
In this country, if you do some
important things well, you can
do a lot of other things poorly.
Be the nightmare who
pays his taxes on time.

I’ve considered whether I might
harbor a lazy, half-assed,
commitment to self-terminate.
Yes, commitment. What else can
you call decades of consistent
intimacy with known lethals?
Executing a top-secret plan to
keep it at a low level so that
something else

Respectable old
man death
gets me first. Mitigations
of exercise and vegetables.
Now, when I can edit
my autopsy report
on the front end.

My brother stopped making
revisions very young.

Oxycodone

I let a sleeping giant lie
about how he was doing
until one day we found the
purple and yellow version
of him under his puke.
So I think, what low odds
it happens to both of my
wheezing mother’s sons.

Lung cancer

Mine won’t be tragic if
I’ve done my job as the editor.
Ordinary suburban fizzle and
some old man aftersmoke like
when a bottle rocket underwhelms
its July 4 executioner.

You see what I mean by
half-assed commitment?
Not fully determined to
be here or be there.
Living liminality to
its fullest until the
Medical Examiner resolves
ambivalence and releases
the published version.