In Which I Miss Her Already.

She wasn't my grandmother.
In the end, you know,
she wasn't anyone I knew.
Really, she wasn't anyone at all.
She was grey and bones,
and skin,
and tubes and blankets and coughs,
like some sci-fi alien monster
out to destroy or rule the world,
or both.
But three weeks ago, and four, and five,
and all that time before,
she was Pepsi first thing in the morning
and she was Midwestern beer at midnight.
She was TMZ and 12:30 p.m. and Judge Judy at 3 p.m.
and history books at 7.
She was pixie cuts and CoverGirl and she was,
"This is much too big for me, do you think
it might fit you?"
She was fudge and glass candy at Christmas,
she was ham on Easter,
she was the best Thanksgiving stuffing anyone
could ever make.
She was crazy earrings and too-big dentures and
she was every sale at Kohl's and Wal-Mart and Big Lots.
She was Fox 10 News, Sherriff Joe's biggest fan and
Obama's biggest critic, and
God help you if you had a visible tattoo,
or worse, a piercing.
And she was there,
always cheering,
always loving,
always willing to lend a hand or
a shoulder or
a book or
just a word.
She was my grandmother.
She was my Gramma.
And now she isn't.

RIP Barbara Janet Jacobson
Feb. 11 1938- Dec. 14 2010

In Which La Vita e` Bella, Truly.

this body is creation,
perfect as
anything on display at the Louvre
or the Smithsonian --
rivals the mystery of painted smiles,
the depth of starry nights.
one day it will belong, will deserve
inked skin stretched canvas-like,
heart propped on velvet under glass,
polished rosary of phalanges strung above
marble brain perched on a pedestal,
ears pinned in rows like
butterflies or beetles, dried hard
but lovely.

In Which I Have a Headache.

so here's another
lost-soul-baby-girl
crying at four a.m.,
inhaling her failures
along with the nicotine.
life is oh so tough, isn't it,
when you're in-between
and underpaid?
when prayer is
less effective and
harder to come by and
burns your insides more
than the contents of the
bottles on your
nightstand.
give it up, give it up,
baby girl,
cuz no one's gonna steer
this ship to shore.
no one's gonna anchor you down.
no crew to help you weather
this storm.
i'm not here to unmix your
metaphors, not gonna
take the wheel or
be your wings or
carry you home.
no one has the key.
not you. not even you.

In Which I'm Wearing BPAL's "Ulalume" and It's Making Me Feel Like a Faerie.

it's easy forget
(or pretend to ignore)
those little things
those
add-it-up knock-you-down
slings and arrows
when you're freshly showered
and smell like a poem
or when someone sleeping
is beautiful enough to merit
kisses that
only you will remember
or
when you never leave
your bed,
your
soft comforter and clean sheets.