Sylvia

Sylvia

You sucked death like a

fruit. For twenty years you

did dying. You had an art.

Your father left you in the

pit of childhood. He

went into his end dustless

and without asking.

At twenty you wore a strap

less black wish. You drank

until you’d drunk ten father

less .s. Dun years, you

beat his coffin. Your fists

never bled. Smashed hands

were a ticket. You knew

how to make him die, die, die.

Twenty was your real death.

Capsules saved like candies.

It was close. It was not

close enough.

Thirty was a party. Show

off show woman do it again.

Come back to see your baked 

brains on my paper. Your 

poems are spread out like

cards. I play your deal

in War.

I lean over my poetry.

Thirteen years beyond you

I know death. I shake at

your familiarity with me.