Another Day in March

I’m having your
miscarriage is the worst
song title since the one
that begins
dyslexic. Sometimes I do

the math. To torture
myself, yes, but more
to torture the memory
of a daughter (not son)
that never got constructed

to be forgotten. I carry
this bus transfer
from a Monday morning
in March with me
in my purse to be

a birthday card
to my 23-year-old child.

To be memento mori
for you and me.

The Mind Is a Dangerous Neighborhood

Don’t wake
the monster inside.

Quiet as you go. Don’t feed
the geese on the pond

behind the castle
where the monster lives.

They’ll get used
to it. Demand more.

Ever been pecked
or bitten into submission?

Nothing fun
about it. If your wrist aches

from sleeping on it
funny, spend your waking

days doing something funnier
than planning

your own wake
with the sound on mute.

You Always Win

“Living it up
at the Hotel
California” tortures her
with gray
memories. She’ll blame

it on the antihistamines.
The way coffee appears
in that translucent cobalt
blue mug. The way
each word laid down

suddenly looks foreign
to her eye. Backwards
is an unwanted side-to-side
motion she has no rudder
to stabilize.

She doesn’t purchase
the wobble
board. Gets no purchase
behind the joke.
Hypochondria never

took off
so gracefully. Never
mind the landing.