Two Poems

But Wait, it Gets Worse

She was changing her diaper
and noticed a hard lump
on her side. She took
the baby to a clinic,
but they didn’t know what it was.
They referred her to a specialist
in Columbus for a biopsy.
They said it might be _______ .

She said,

                          I don’t know what I’ll do if
                          I can’t deal with any more of
                          But I’ve been sober for
                          My car won’t make it all the way to
                          I did everything I was
                          Why can’t I ever

Small Talk

The check-out clerk asks how my day is going.
Shitty. He smiles, automatic, then he hears me.
Oh. That’s too bad. Sorry to hear it.
I take my bag, glancing back at the counter.
Did I forget someone? Did I pay for this? I don’t even want this.
At the traffic light, car horns blare like skinned animals.
I put my foot on the gas and go.
Not because the light is green, but because
we put a warm sweater on the child, then buried her.
Well-wishers have named this a difficult time.
They keep apologizing for how difficult it is.
If there is anything I can do. Do you need anything?
How about a little goddamn honesty.
How about calling it what it really is.
How about stop your fucking smiling.
How about breaking it down: carrying
three bags of groceries on each arm
and holding a sleeping three-year old
while trying to unlock the front door is difficult.
Watching a coffin go by, small enough to be carried
by a single person is difficult.
What I need somebody to do
is talk about the dolls, the baby shampoo
and un-scuffed shoes, the boxes of latex gloves,
the empty car seat, and the woman who survived
decades of shit to end up here, an addict
four years sober, praising Morphine in
her child’s final hours. What you have to do
is call picking out your baby’s headstone
the ravenous hell it truly is and say, I’m sorry.
So very sorry. I am so very sorry
for this impossible time.