The town we visited, Al says, remember
the town—we caught a bus there.
Eurithe can’t remember the name of the place,
either, but she recalls a wake-up call
and a foreign voice saying Your cold breakfast
is coming up. The last time I made Al
a birthday cake it fell, but Al was gracious
enough to say thank you for your largesse.
There are vast areas of my ————
that are missing, for instance the name
of the restaurant in Dublin where each dish
was an approximation of its ideal,
or the Christian names of my daughter’s
school bus drivers I said I’d never forget:
Mrs. Blood, Mr. Wolf, and Miss Hood.
I wanted to write a Young Adult book
about “the late bus,” the one the bad kids
always took, but I didn’t want my obituary
ending up in the Entertainment Section
of the newspaper where I once found a prognosis
of Elizabeth Taylor’s tumour. I don’t want
to be anybody’s Smile of the Day
which is why I’m glad I didn’t shoot myself
cleaning Henry White’s house on Haida Gwaii
last summer—my death would have made
the National Enquirer along with “Wife Used
Cheating Hubby’s Toothbrush to Clean the Commode.”
In Henry White’s house I sucked up a .22 bullet,
heard a bang, saw sparks, and the next thing
I remember was seeing headlines: “Woman Shoots
Self in Head with Vacuum Cleaner.” The photograph
of my Sad Brain looks like a honeydew melon
soaked in V8 Juice all night after being run over
by a train the time I went pub-hopping in Oxford
and landed in a punk bar eating
drugged cookies which I worried about later
when I started hallucinating because I was pregnant
with Charlotte and didn’t want her to be born
in the corridor of British Rail while I peaked
on Peak Freen Digestive Biscuits. Mary Oliver
says poems are ropes let down to the lost, I wish
someone would keep that in mind when they ever
find me. A critic in the Globe asks why
poets are always losing things, especially
people, why can’t they find something
instead, and I believe he deserves an answer.
The town where they lost your suitcase, Al says,
remember the town—we caught a bus there.
Eurithe can’t remember if her luggage showed up
but she does recall a wake-up call, a foreign
voice saying, Your hour has come, and the line
going dead. You cherish people
then they are gone: what more can be said
about the ones I’d rather be with,
the ones I love best.
I thank them for their largesse.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
