Bette

Gang murdered Jimmie
down along the wharf
on his way to, or was it from
the store . . . Smoked his last
cigarette. His blood soaked the walk.
Moira and I left New Orleans
where my papa was the Jew
feared for his rulings
from the bench, and Pierce
was a name of no worthy note
but how he could love . . .
He knew how to play
my drum with his tongue,
ease me up and over the top
of that little churn of desire.
We spawned the daughter
whose name meant Fate.
In San Diego she died
while I drank grief’s dregs,
bashing heads with beer glasses,
rolling on the slippery floor
pulling hair, going for the eyes.
My bones bear too little flesh
for a lover to stay long there.
He hires a cab to deliver
me to be on my way home,
but I fear the sky.
I will miss this air.
I will die by the deep blue sea
hunting my daughter’s killer.

(4 September 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander