Ode to Sorrow
with thanks to FG, now asleep in my bed
Liver-limbed, the skin of hardened wax
rests unpleasant and feathers fealty to an
awesome god. A good god, but spotted
and hard as the underbelly of a hippo.
An ode to sorrow:
What can I not forget, oh beautiful and forgiven.
What now, that time has surpassed the will of
my own memory? I am an ode to sorrow.
A small child my grandmother convinced me that she –
born in jersey city, raised in a department store –
had been a long-haul truck driver.
What a bad day when I realized it couldnt be true.
In one month I will attend her unveiling. This gift
from her passing reminds me of an ode to sorrow,
and leaves me liver-limbed and scared.
Tonight I worry for my baby, and am worried for my fears.