I owe my life to Lee Harvey Oswald
Or Jack Ruby
Or the CIA
Or somebody

like my parents, entwined in sheets of passion
And pillow corners of tears
In the fourth floor walk up
Of pain.

Now,
is this why
all my life
I long
to console
to condole
to send flowers
to write notes?

*Do you feel the same?

*I do, yep….

*Me too!

*I want to save everyone—all the time!

*Yes, it’s almost like a lust–

I want to pick them up–
I want to put the broken pieces
back together!

*I want to throw myself at inexorable outcomes,
salute the lowest of graves,
melt all guns down
in the forge of my burning heart.

*Yes. And I own so many damn
pink pillbox hats.

*Me too!
*Me too! The hats–me too!

Is there any way we could really
gather a nation to our collective bosom
and make it better?

*I don’t know.

*Me neither.

*I wish….

But sometimes.
All you know is that
You just have to
Stop the car
And dive into the back

and strain for broken dreams
and stroke condolences with weary fingers
and send flowers
to all the right recipients
until you are
sure
that the gun-blasted rhinestone guts of mourning
have been properly put
to rest.

 

 

Phoebe Wilcox lives in eastern Pennsylvania. She loves Juan Ramon Jimenez, grasshoppers, and potato leek soup. Her novel, Angels Carry the Sun is pending publication with Lilly Press, and an excerpt from a second novel, Flower Symbolism for Dummies, has been published in “Wild Violet.” Recent and forthcoming work may be found in “Sixers Review,” “Bartleby-Snopes,” “A cappella Zoo,” “Glossolalia,” “The Chaffey Review,” “Calliope Nerve” and others. Her story, “Carp with Water in Their Ears,” published in “River Poets Journal” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Website: www.phoebewilcox.com.