Writers

Begrudging The Dead

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I go through your stories, the poems
about your daughter,
the noir entries that played off of
the wasted miles we knew
when we played
together in a band,
and it can’t be true, that you’re dead at a too-young 47.
I wrote you an email when I saw
the notice, thinking, hoping
that it was a prank
or a decoy maneuver done
in desperation to keep your
little girl at your side,
away from the mother
you no longer trusted,
the young female
who danced in a Tijuana club
for lucre before heading to some
small room upstairs
with the moment’s guest.
You never answered, and
now,
I know you’re really gone.
The autopsy report’s cold
epitaph: Hypertensive and Atherosclerotic
Cardiovascular disease; plaque building
up inside your worried heart as you
carted your two-year-old from station
to station, seeking
some clean solace from the blackened pits
of Zona Norte.
I have no one to talk to about you,
no friends in common close by;
I want to tell a girl you
used to know,
but I’m afraid
of what she’d say, turning it
into a diatribe
that would end up being
about her–this is
how bad it’s become:
there’s no one left to share
grief with, for fear
these hollow names will hiss and recede,
begrudging even the dead.

Mark Twain Coffee

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Almost every day, I reach for the same cup
for my coffee,
and I pause, remembering your voice,
your ragged hopeful voice
with your wry notes on life
mixed in with your worry and love,
like a splash of bourbon
in a mug of hot chocolate.

The cup has a drawn picture
of Samuel Clemens, with a quote:
“The man who doesn’t read good books
has no advantage over the man who
can’t read them.”
My brother gave this to me
when we cleaned out your apartment,
the snow starting to melt,

the carrion tenants descending on the few items
we left by the dumpster,
which I helped carry out,
numb.

I reach for the same vessel
almost every day, to share
Mark Twain with you,
to hear your voice,
your news, your
joy at a sudden call,

just once again
shared from a common cup.

Mark Twain