Vox Populi
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature. Over 16,000 daily subscribers. Over 7,000 archived posts.
Lisa Fay Coutley: Duplex
From the other side of the wall I hear the woman who could just as easily be me in my bathroom repeating I am forty forty I am forty like a rehearsal for the next man who will ask her age the way a mother must remind herself your son is a homeless drug addict your son is your son is a homeless drug addict your son until it becomes real & she can pretend that this day can be different from the one that came before or that will come after her in those moments before sleep when she hears thunder & pictures him chin-up in a mummy bag in that city park where last night she had his dinner delivered to him & felt the earth spin even further out of control & her life she is sure is at least half over though he doesn’t even have a mummy bag just a pair of sweats a t-shirt a ratty blanket & she convinces herself this is his last meal.
Lisa Fay Coutley’s books include tether (Black Lawrence Press, 2020). She is the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and Associate Professor of Poetry & Creative Nonfiction at the University of Nebraska Omaha Writer’s Workshop.
Copyright 2020 Lisa Fay Coutley.
Vox Populi 
I love this poem.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Dawn. I do too.
>
LikeLike
Thank you, Dawn. ❤
LikeLike
And thank you, Vox Populi!
LikeLiked by 1 person