Here’s to not killing yourself
P with DA issued narcotics
with Deer Hunting Rifles
PRecreation what life left
in forest PUUUin sand
Pin the White Throne Room
where you sat among
Pblood & brothers
and the Valkyrie your sisters
Pwhen you raised up your call
sign like a prayer
Pand called down hell
fire in our age
Pwhere our every battle is
ragnarok and you wept
Pwithout shamePU in salute
and the throng of well wishers

I am a part

the kind you met
at the arrival gate
shook hands and welcomed back
visitors
if there is anyone
Welcome Back
the kind that could mark
your wounds by
your inabilities
to speak to speak to listen
in anything but blast fragments
the kind that never knew
the certainty of steel
and the strength of the wild flowers
as you patrolled with men
and ate alone
for what company
is there in men?

leaving the divided house
Pand the black tent
the cry of the delivery room
Pand the shout of the bedroom
racing into the crackling fire
Pthat you mistook for sunrise
the distant moon
Pthat you mistook for friend
the laughter of wolves
PWe allowed to circle us in
and lay to rest
PWe refuse to rest

warring till our company arrives
Pwarring till our company arrives
warring for our company who holds the line
in blood and breath and life itself
here’s to not killing
yourself.

EACH NIGHT MY MOTHER DIES AGAIN

Each night the phone rings—
Your mother has passed.
Each night I expect to be relieved, but night falls on night.
Each night she is the mother who makes waffles,
batter bubbling from the sides of the iron, the mother
who squeezes fresh orange juice, and serves soft-boiled eggs
in enchanted egg cups. Each night I squint into her face
as she carries me over the ocean waves, her arms my raft.
Each night she refills Dr. Zucker’s prescriptions
for diet pills and valium. Each night she waters her rosebushes
with Dewar’s. Each night I see her hands shake,
her brows twitch. Each night she adds ground glass
to the chopped liver, rubbing alcohol to the chopped herring.
Each night she puts a chicken straight on the lit burner
without a pot. Each 2:00 a.m., Mrs. Finch from 6G phones—
Sorry to say your mother is naked
in the hallway again.
Each night my mother is strapped into her railed bed
at Pilgrim State, curled into a fetal position,
her hands fisted like claws.
Each night she calls to me
from her plain pine coffin, calls me
by the name she gave me, the name
she hasn’t forgotten.