The True Subject

This poem
is brief.
Though not so brief
as to avoid
mentioning
the true subject.
I'm sure
Hafez is happy
in his rose garden.

A poem for Eugene.

I wrote this for a poetry class, so there were requirements to be met—namely, that I had only ten minutes to compose the piece, and had to put some form of the word ‘shiver’ in, as well the words ‘raft’ and ‘ambulance’… The result turned out to be a memoriam of sorts to my maternal grandfather, a man who always carried a sort of quiet mythic air about him. And the doughnut shop in question is Alie’s, in case you were wondering—if you live on the East Coast…stop by there and devour some for me, will ya?

Lake Cha(rgoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungam)augg and the Mournful Doughnut.


Roiling mists on Lake Chaugg hide a raft
a springboard for naked flips into the water

the sweet, high laugh of a friend’s lover,
later, the sound of an ambulance, a banshee’s wail

someone in the family has died, will die,
the sídhe keens, my aunt insists she shows up before each death.

Now, all that exists is that lake, cloaked in the colors of dawn,
another ambulance behind us on the road in Middlesex, Mass.

Shivering, I ride shotgun, a box of doughnuts, best in Rhode Island, at my feet.
Jelly with powdered sugar, cake with white frosting and sprinkles.

I can’t eat the jellied ones anymore, too much sorrow in them,
memories of a dead, mourned, and never-really-known grandfather
linger in strawberry-red smears on a white shirt every Friday morning.

Something brief and dark before I turn in

That October afternoon.
I still hate Octobers because of that day.
Without remorse, it stole upon me.
I was watching a vampire film set in Mexico,
heroine as tan and busty as they come,
a low-rent Salma Hayek, with about quarter of the allure
and none of the mystique.
And then, those words,
dread to the mind of any,
but especially from a loved one:
Cancer.