(go to my reading)

Excerpted from a longer poem, The Four Housewives of the Apocalypse

Pale Horse

In my hospital bed in the living room,
I am a shut-off room with its own weather.

My sweating son sometimes appears in the distance,
baby’s breath in his fist,
like I’m his first date and he’s terrified
I’ll try to kiss him under the apple tree.

I don’t sleep anymore,
but I dream, my eyes open.
I dream I’m predicting my daughter’s future
and expressing myself through the mouth
of a white horse
with very large teeth.
The horse shits daisies and lilies,
they pile up on the couch and window sill.

My daughter begs the doctor to
increase the morphine in my drip.

There’s a fence
of poesies around my bed: violets,
white tulips, baby’s breath.
They hope to bury me in flowers.

My lavender night gown stinks of roses,
my hands swim free and float around the room,
touching petals, when no one’s watching.

The children whisper about me upstairs.
I use my new eyes to see them through
the ceiling.

When my horse is not chewing
on the potted plants he lets me lean on him,
leads me into the kitchen. I do things
there at night, excellent meals
I put together and hide.

They’ve picked out a flowered
urn for my ashes.
I have other plans.


(go to my reading)