Four Poems

Almighty

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His twitch. His gaptooth. His meathook hands. His whiskey.
His cocaine. His lie. His momma. His lie. His girl. His lie. His lie.
His mask. His blame. His finger-point. His backstab. His loyal. His game.
His drunk. His spill. His fool. His freeload. His pass-out.
His breath. His dirt socks. His hole jeans. His unlaced laces.
His laundry but never a thank you. His you-a-thorny-motherfucker.
His train three hours for the dog. His guilt. His you-owe-me-now. His joke.
His charisma. His martyr. His bellow. His take. His not proper.
His cover up. His lie. His knotted fists. His wrist-pin. His twice your size.
His monster. His apology. His sleepwalk. His sweet talk.
His please-forgive-me. His let’s move on.
His wit. His shame. His slander. His pervert. His secret blog.
His secret bigot. His only for my boys on Long Island.
His not job. His not tonight. His better things to do. His lies.
His curse the friends who don’t cover his lies.
His beer bong and fried meat. His football and fried meat.
His don’t call on Sunday, got football and girls and fried meat.
His stoned. His hostile. His high. His reel-back. His snake tongue.
His silver tooth. His rant. His bellow. His heart. His heart. His saint.
His street corner kiss. His barroom kiss. His always in front of a crowd kiss.
His never in front of his ex kiss. His win. His only when he wins. His rant. His formula.
His legacy. His fantasy. His flair. His bathroom stall. His two at once. His brag.
His warrior. His broken. His moan. His she-got-married. His she-got-pregnant.
His lament. His commotion. His lie. His 6AM. His derail.
His marry me. His marry her. His marry her, too.
His not-on-her-birthday. His we’re-just-friends. His please-marry-me.
His I-can-give-you-children. His be-mine. His please please please.
His not call you back. His pocketful of condoms. His lie comes out.
His let’s-not-discuss-it. His details-don’t-matter. His cordial. His victim.
His won’t stop texting. His won’t stop emailing. His wound.
His mirage. His bewildered. His it’s-twenty-fucking-eleven-get-over-it.
His threat. His dare. His sociopath. His stalk. His grandeur. His monolith.
His king. His omnipotent. His everything. His lie. His everything. His everything.
His.

Genetics of Regret

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I’m sorry I don’t call. Sorry I snuck down the stairs and out to the mouth of a boy who will never know my name. I’m sorry I ruined your carpet with a backdraft of whiskey. I’m sorry I told our secrets. Sorry I put them in a book. Sorry I didn’t tell you about it. I’m sorry for the freckles and the switches and the mean boys in grade school. I’m sorry I scratched your Neil Diamond record. Sorry I drew the picture of the dead cat. Titled it after my dead sister. I’m sorry they pulled her from your body like a sad wet sponge. I’m sorry no one came to the hospital. Sorry I felt sorry. I’m sorry about the stolen tampons and the nest of mice in the stove. The pennies for gas money. Sorry I drank all your rum. Sorry about the boy in the basement. And the one on the porch. And the back of your car. I’m sorry about the slashed window screens. And forearms. I’m sorry I lied about acid and the boy with the knife. The houseful of beer rats. Sorry for the weevils and the dead grass. I’m sorry I don’t call anymore. I’m sorry your life looks like this in photo albums. Sorry I was part of your stain. I’m sorry it took 36 years to say this. You hate me. You are too kind to say so. Sorry I told our stories. Sorry I am so small. Sorry I haven’t thanked you for sacrifice. For stereo and dolls and English and correcting my stutter and the big slumber party with all the gift bags. Sorry I vomited in the wash drain. Sorry I left. Sorry I came back. I’m sorry you still get so angry. Sorry I struck back. Sorry I loved you so hard-then turned like a coin that has run out of spin. I’m sorry the rock opened that boy’s forehead. Sorry I cursed you. Sorry I wouldn’t let you hit me anymore. I’m sorry I lied. Sorry I couldn’t tell you. Sorry I am a coward. My skin has started to yellow. My neck is curving into an ampersand. I’m sorry we can’t talk about it. I sorry we can’t talk. Sorry the world kicked you so hard. I’m sorry he’s sick, mama. Sorry all I can do is worry what happens next. Sorry I wrote the poems. Sorry I stopped calling. Sorry I don’t visit. Sorry you never wanted me. I can’t be fixed. We can’t laugh. I’m sorry I don’t need you like other girls. There’s so much decay in these bones. There are no grandchildren. Sorry I failed. Sorry I am alone. I’m sorry alone is easier than talking to you. I’m sorry it comes like this. Flood and undertow. Sorry I can’t sit comfortably in the same room. That I twitch like a startled moth. Sorry I came out hard and sharp and full of claws. Ruined your body. Only learned the wrong things. I’m sorry you’re so far. Sorry I have no intention of coming to find you.

I’m sorry I don’t call.

How to Talk to Dead Girls

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They console you over the dog.
Because she was alive once.
Because you loved her and she, you.
They avoid discussing the children you won’t have.
Refuse to speak his name.
Careful to omit words like ovary and abandon.
No one mentions the bridge anymore.
No one talks of pills or razors or hair dryers.
No one asks about the hole in your chest.
Its constant spill down the front of your shirt,
the rancid, oozing stench.
Ask instead, Did you get a new dog yet?

Frat Boy

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When I ripped her dress (down to her waist)
her size D’s flopping out like the happy hands
of a birthday clown;

when my eyes locked there:
the perfect quarters of her areola,
the carnation-pink gumdrops hard in the air-conditioned chill,
each flanked by tiny silver pearls;

when my mouth, which
(until that day)
had never offered her
a single word, spilled:
Damn, woman, I didn’t know
your titties were pierced!

I waited.

But that stupid bitch
wouldn’t even slap me.