part 2 and 3

ii.

she tells me she's tired of this as she slips on her shoes-- tells me she's going to throw herself in front of a car. her hips hurt too much, the house is too dirty. she tries opening the front door and i help her because it's too heavy. determined to end it she grips the railing and goes down the stairs one step at a time. at the bottom she pulls her pants up over her hips, rolls them twice and looks towards the street as a yellow volvo drives by. she takes a deep breath and steps forward. her cane hits a crack

in the pavement. she lifts it and looks at the worn out bulb on the end. now standing next to my truck she asks where we're going. a yellow daisy peeks into her periphery. she turns towards it, sun to her back. gripping the stem for a second, she tells me these bloom year-round. noticing a weed in the flower bed she leans her cane against the wall. her old wrinkled fingers dig into the soil and with little resistance she retrieves the weed. she continues down the flower bed, getting dirt in her nails and into the creases of her skin. she says there are too many. at the top of the stairs, pockets full of weeds, she told me she got them all and i open the door for her and she comes back inside, sits by the window to watch the cars pass by.

iii.
(for jack gilbert)

i read him
his poetry,
his head
resting back
mouth
slightly agape

i ask him
if he met ginsberg
he smiles
and nods

i ask him
to sign my book--
i put the pen
in his hand,
a blue bic,
and he stares
at it for a second
before trying
to eat it.

dislike of mama's eyes

float down a river named Without Care
headless and heedless

lead-bottomed ocean raft

stand precariously centered
me motionless
be a buoy

leg full of lead cramps

life without a life jacket
swim to shore

Cesar Vallejo

I will die in Berkeley, on a day already forgotten,
the only rain of a confused winter.
I will die on a Friday, exhausted of phone calls, the paper
work-- it seems as if I put my
jaw on wrong this morning-- and have forgotten how to use my lips
to cover my teeth. The sky pressures me to cry as to not be alone--
I don't know if it's for me or for it.

Jamie Erickson is dead. The quake has crushed her
at the front desk. A bath tub fell through the ceiling
and black and white stones buried her breath. There were no
witnesses. No one saw anything-- not even the rain.

vulnerable

(ask to read, submitted to magazine)

writing poetry

they say
to write poetry
you must drink
or fall in love
of which
i can do
neither