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Between Birth and Decay

My aunt had cancer.
Actually, she still does.
It’s just rotting with her bones in an underground cavern.

Between birth and decay,
it’s the suffering that counts.
Malinger away.

Two other aunts have cancer now.
Don’t they deserve it, never coming to visit
never seeing the suffering until the end.

More endings coming forthwith.

 Miami

My ex-boyfriend had gone to Miami for four days in April.
I know because I drove him from the airport.

He went to a strip club.
He met and took pictures of girls he met there.
One night on the town, three pictures of these girls.
I know because one morning after he’d gone to work, I looked through the pictures on his camera.

Six months with me, not a one picture did he take.
I know because I was there.
I know because he’s so predictable.

I know because I drove him to the airport.

Bones

My dog had a bone
but no meat on it
not even much of a scent
where there should have been flavor and bite

My friend nodded
saying it’s a shame
puppies having puppies
but she didn’t know better

She just wanted a chance at a real bone
but she has the real thing now and I give her bacon-flavored bones everyday

See poeticgrin.com for the rules of this exercise.

Note: “Miami” and “Bones”  appear to have 11 lines; however, there is one line in each that is  too long for wordpress’s sensibilities.

I didn’t put her away. I thought I would have. I thought I’d turned a corner.

For six weeks, an envelope with pictures of my dead aunt have been on my coffee table, waiting for me to do something with them. I have gotten teary-eyed just seeing the envelope. The last week has been especially difficult because I noticed that the pictures are halfway out of the envelope and the part I see is her exposed neck, her neck, the part that killed her. Or the cancer underneath. Whatever.

The pictures of her are when she was younger and healthier. Before she knew how she’d die or that the son (who was also in those pictures) would go before her.

I wrote her a letter before she died but didn’t get around to sending it. So I found it in my car, addressed and stamped, ready for her to read it. She’s not around to read it. She said she started a letter to me but couldn’t finish it because her hands were shaking so bad. I am sure the paper has been thrown away by now, but I’m haunted by what she may have said.

She told everyone I was her rock, but rocks don’t sob; they sit indifferent. And that I could never be.

My mother gave me pictures of her
and her son
both dead

We all die sooner or later

No one comes into the world
thinking she will suffer a lingering, painful death
or that he will die of a ruptured ulcer

We all die quickly or slowly

We all die of trivial things
which is not supposed to happen
or so our rebellious minds wail

She gave me pictures
of a dead woman and her dead son
They are still in the envelope
what’s left of a dead woman and her son

Where to bury the bodies
Where to put the ashes

SOB with me

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