That look on his face. After all these years, I’d love to punch him again.
I’m from the ocean’s melancholy, dragging
its anchors back & forth, never quiet, never
still, waves so restless they can’t mirror the moon.
The moon in her lopsided veil
like a hillbilly bride
her face round and pale pink
against the darkening blue.
I wonder what Adam and Eve
think of it by this time,
this firegilt steel
alive with goldenness…
Beat generation poet Gregory Corso reads his classic poem “Marriage” from his book, The Happy Birthday of Death, first published in 1960.
In the ancient night
the vines of summer choke
breath choke memory
blooms fatten and fall
The wig arrived in a pretty pink box. I’d ordered it online from a wig shop. Silky, blonde and long, it felt as if I were entertaining a movie star in my hallway. Grace Kelly in a box on my couch. So nice to meet you, I said, slipping it on.
A few days later, I came out to my husband. Our marriage exploded into shards in a matter of minutes.
Between this and that, my wife, my dear little cowslip,
was misdiagnosed with heart failure and everything I loved
lost its pigment. The old reds weren’t red anymore,
the rose bushes on the path by the river had lost their pink
two by two in the ark of
the ache of it