Just One More
You lose this round Your hands are shaking. We took back our In conversation At the end we Your replacement�s name I�m holding the whip. But,
no one replaced I can�t wage war I lose. You lose. 1.
Don�t let the jelly- 2.
Don�t let the jelly- 3.
Don�t let the jelly- 4.
Don�t let the jelly I�m up at four, but My father�s damnation There�s no demand for He isn�t damned. I�m up because his Lights out, they climb She opens her own When awake, he is They tuck away We were always wishing for June,
of hide and seek.
Mine did, too, when
I first gave them to
your outstretched ones.
hands a long time ago,
but still meet,
claiming it�s just
friendship now.
we exhaust current
events. Your cats.
I wouldn�t know you
if I only read your
biography post-
me.
had split our page
down the middle,
and the words on
my half are now
blurs to my eyes
and memory.
comes up, and those times
you didn�t want me
again, or again,
have all led up to
this.
�He�s wonderful,� should
be lash one. Lash two,
�I�ve never been happier.�
me�as if our
elevator embraces,
my hair in your mouth,
are worth saving.
if you won�t fight back.
I stretch my smile
like hide over a drum,
and drop the whip.
We�re together.
Advice from My Divorced Mother
fish get to you.
Swim towards him,
if he�s what you want.
Rejection stings but
it�s better than
sand in your pants.
beans get to you.
They may be your
favorite candy,
but he can do better.
Make sure he knows
it�s Godiva or goodbye.
rolls get to you.
He says he loves
you the way you are.
But �fat� and �girl-
friend� can�t be
in the same sentence.
coat get to you.
His words aren�t sincere.
He�s not sorry to leave.
Don�t swallow it. Scream. Cry.
Congratulations,
you�re a woman.
It�s hard for atheists to cope with death, the televangelist says
In memory of Alan Hankin
lack of prayer does not
fuel my insomnia.
is not in my hands.
If it�s all true,
my mother and aunts�
collective tribute,
made out in prayers
and rosary rubbing,
will bribe Peter to
open the gates.
their currency, so
why play the game?
He isn�t even gone.
We still share the
same ground, and
he�ll rejoin us.
Immortality
exists, if you�re
willing to switch forms.
return is not to be
missed, but easy to miss.
Masquerade
into bed and
shed disguises.
Their alibi: sleep.
doors and has an
ever-ready wallet
during the day,
but is now
barnacle-
tight at his waist.
a Happy Buddha.
At rest, his hands
are balled fists.
He mutters when
not grating teeth.
these until bedtime
because monsters
in the mirror
are scariest of all.
Big little girls
A bout-rimes
the end of school, the end of stress.
Seventeen magazine let us moon
away, feeding us pretty boys to obsess
over�Pop culture was (still is) a snake,
making feminism�s success moot.
It told us fourteen-year olds to cake
powder on our faces in order to be beaut.
We could try, but we could never be Garbo.
High self-esteem? That was child�s play.
A single girl was as well-off as a hobo.
Ignoring adult morale boosters, we dreamt of the day
we�d feel like diamonds instead of rhinestone,
the day we could bathe in boys� cologne.
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