Which Half

Twenty three from you, my mother

half my body/mind

for sure my blue eyes

but not my right-handedness

which has made my life easier

than yours, you writing with a coiled hand

smearing ink across the page

for sure my burning, not tanning

At the beach, skin peeling

like potatoes going in with the roast

cooked by Thelma or Nettie or Bertha

over the years, but never you, my mother

who cooked only Chef Boyardee

and burnt lima beans on Sundays

when you got out of bed and shuffled

into the kitchen looking lost

For sure relentless insomnia

nightmares galloping through

my dreams, dark hearts beating

sleep possible only with pink pills of mercy

like old friends stopping by

to return a book, then staying on for hours

for sure a love of flowers

you stopped the car every time

We passed the Taylor’s garden

and cried out

look at the delphinium

a flash of joy like a shooting star

but not the hidden bottles in your closet

not the threats of driving into the ancient

maple tree at the bottom of our street

not the sirens waking me, looking out

the window to see you taken away­
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NO SEROTONIN LEFT

Help! My serotonin is reuptaking

by the gigatonne. Neurons

greedily slurping like a black Lab

licking ice cream on the sidewalk

outside Baskin-Robbins.

Little left to carry upbeat messages

around my brain in brown leather

satchels or JanSport backpacks. Memories

of Santa Claus, shiny quarters from

my uncle or Max making mischief.

More like Red Riding Hood with an empty

basket or the Easter Bunny with no tinted eggs.

I lie in bed like an ancient grandmother with

a white kerchief around her head. The wolves

of depression knocking at the door.­
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WITHOUT

The future is

furling

its wings

too tired to

soar close

to the sun

to sweat in

a tangle

of arms

& legs &

lips &

tongues

what is left

after bodies

no longer

are we buddies

colleagues

friends

with no benefits

do we drag

our drooping

feathers in

the unhoured

hours

while orange

ghosts whisper

orange words

remember?

can brittle bones

lean together

bare birds

on winter branches

can frayed edges

find the familiar

a touch, a smile

a memory of