my dying grandmother
a believer in god all of her life
said to me while she was constipated
& trying to reach up & pull shit out
of her asshole in the bathroom:
"there ain't no god--
don't listen to that garbage"
& a little while later as medics
wheeled her out on the gurney
she said, "change my room back
into a den b/c i ain't ever coming
back this time"
as her cheek bones rose
like islands of truth in her face
wiser anatomy than the wrinkled skin
i remember getting the news of her death
& standing in her empty room
next to my own & then kicking
her walker & making a hole
in the newly painted pink walls
my mother coming in saying,
"don't do that--someone else can use it"
after that i was convinced that all beds
are actually gurneys in disguise
it's just a matter of time
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.
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- ▼ 2009 (44)