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Dear Dad

Dear Dad

Thirty years after your death
I bring a silver thermos of Manhattans
to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery on Dewey Ave.
Thirsty grass leans in a stiff breeze
off the lake. Marble markers
line up like bar stools.
In the hush of a summer afternoon
I toast your legacy: you savored

the joy of words, and the exhilarating ways                          
a stream of humor gurgled over ordinary stones.
Because of you, I imagine the world
as a succulent maraschino cherry
ripe with possibilities. Dad, you showed me
all of that shimmering energy.
I raise a glass to your light.
I touch my pen to the page.

The summer you died I found your wallet in your top drawer.
Driver’s license, insurance, your secret recipe for window cleaner—
my pink and white Lady Bartender business card
with the slogan we agreed on: I Mix Well.


Paterson Literary Review
From a manuscript-in-process, Goddess of Swizzle

What the Bride Wore

What the Bride Wore

A white silk jersey gown,
close-fitting bodice, bouffant skirt
of marquisette. Tulle halo in her hair.

After the honey dropped off the moon—
how Mom told it, winking at Dad—
she accepted synthetics, her closet

a department store paradise lush with
eye-popping shades of yellow and blue,
an occasional red. Mom worshipped

Alfred Dunner, adored his drip-dries.
She even whispered his name
into holy water before Sunday mass.

Silk’s fine for the wedding, she said, but you ought
to have plenty of polyester for the long haul.


Poetry East
Wild Girls

Mixing Manhattans in Heaven

Mixing Manhattans in Heaven

When skies drizzle over Baltimore,
I taste bourbon in the air and know
my parents are drinking Manhattans—two each—
in a bistro in another realm,
where ice cubes like stars clink into night;
maraschino cherries dazzle the winter-weary earth.

After cocktails, my father leads the choir, blends
a bevy of languages into song. My mother
crochets a pearl afghan every angel covets.
My parents lounge, share a cloud,
reminisce about how they met at a bus stop
in the spring of 1940.

I want one more happy hour with them,
a wedge of time to toast their light, the way
they shape this new green season.


The Cortland Review (Issue 54)
Bistro in Another Realm

Slain

Slain

           —August 25, 2010
              one month after my murder
              (in the voice of Stephen B. Pitcairn)

I miss small joys: oysters
on the half shell, a good joke.

I want years to explore
all the stops on my personal map.

Give me the chance to celebrate
my twenty-fourth birthday.

Is it too much to ask
for one piece of chocolate cake?

I grieve for my parents, my sisters,
my co-workers, my friends—
the light they lost when I died.

My mother heard my final cries
over the phone—Mom,
the last word I spoke.

I need time for embraces, hugs,
a long exuberant farewell.

I forgive the pair who gouged my heart;
make them understand what they did.

Thank you, kind stranger,
who held me in the street.

I did not know your name;
I could barely move my lips.

Blood flowed from my wound,
soaking both of us.

I felt your comfort—your voice
calmed my final breath.

Goodbye, dear ones, I’ll be off now,
the youngest doctor in the angel crowd;
they gave me an instant medical degree.

Look for me in the gallant
green-garbed full moon, my grin
an oasis in the night sky.

In quiet moments, listen to nature:
birds, cicadas, a butterfly wing.
In their music, my heart still beats.


After Words

Making Change

Making Change

I buy a green Checker taxi
at a junkyard,
fix it up
including the meter,
and drive around town,
charging myself for every mile.
I spend the money on travel:
a month in Venice,
three weeks in France,
but always I come back
to my green Checker cab,
hanging souvenirs
from the rear-view mirror.

When my schedule allows
I pick up fares,
take them to a museum
regardless of their destination.
Make time for culture, I say.
Arrayed in accessories
resplendent in the sun,
I wave at strangers
with both hands,
steering at last from the inside.


A Little Breast Music