You interrupted my reading with fantasies
of your death. They begin with a phone call,
my mother whispers,

Jennifer, I need to tell you something�

I know her cymbal-clear pitch
means what occurred finished. You overdosed;
the funeral will be in three days. Your wax-like body
collapsed onto that placid layer of denial.
Sores make-up will never cover.

Did you suffer?
I will never know your fear.

Your mother is taking it bad Beth.
She blames herself for marrying that man,
knowing he molested you. I blame her too,
because if I don�t, I remember waking up next to you
at three am while you shot up in your calf.
And who can I blame for that?

Who to blame now for not pinning you down,
crushing the syringes, trashing the dope?
Who to blame for not calling the police?
Locking you up to save you?

You�d hate me Beth.
You�d never speak to me again.

And I can only close this stupid book,
toss it on the floor, wait to have the fantasy again
tomorrow and again until you are gone.


� 2004 by Jenni Russell