Poetry
Felix Thursday
Jeanna
Sometimes I forget you.
You in that Hospice dress,
gliding like a witch's broom.
Sometimes staggering into a room,
espousing everything was beautiful
and how you loved Jim Carroll
and men with crooked teeth.
Or you in my bed, and your
husband and baby in Oregon.
But you enraptured with how
my fingers held a cigarette.
I forget. How you sat on the floor
sobbing drunk, reading poetry.
Gripping a bottle of vodka so hard
it seemed you or it were destined
to shatter.
