The very worst thing about living in Utah other than just having to live here is the assumption that I am Mormon or was Mormon and yeah, I was Mormon and this makes it even worse.  

I could drown in eyes like that

So much so I have to look away or be lost 

You’re forbidden.

Sucking in the stale air of another

The stale breath of fidelity , another,

Day of loose thinking, uncontrolled thinking,

Who cares about thinking, for the birds,

Is what you would say.

Trembling in the gore of your inflamed lungs

Pink, black, fresh and pretty lungs that you think

Too much about.  

“Do you think he was afraid in those last few moments?”  Her eyes were big and desperate, looking straight into mine. 

“No.  He was disorientated.  He was foggy.  There is no way he knew what was happening.  I was there.” She seems satisfied with this.  We sit back and watch everyone, like ants, walking in pairs, lines, some of them approaching the grave and others staying far back by the trees, talking to each other in groups of three or four.  My mother sits alone under the canopy holding her face in her hands.  Everyone has left her but they all watch her from the corners of their eyes.  They don’t know how to handle her grief.  My sister and I don’t either and so we sit back a few rows and feel that all we understand is each other.  My father never showed up, mumbling something about how the spirit has left and this is only a body and he’s not here anymore and why should he come to the funeral that means nothing and would mean nothing to my brother.  Everyone is angry with him but then, everyone is always angry with my father. 

My sister and I get up because my younger brother is waving us over.  My cousin from Las Vegas is here.  He’s huge, muscular, bald, littered in tattoos.  He busts gangs for a living.  We walk up to him and he doesn’t know what to say.  His face isn’t streaked with anguish like ours.  He barely knew my brother and all his memories of him would have been from Christmas at our grandmother’s house back before he could even use a fork by himself.  We talk for a moment about his job, his baby, and I turn to look at his wife who isn’t saying a word.  She’s tall, thin and very blonde.  Her face seems perpetually locked in a grimace. 

My sister nudges me, giving me that look that she wants to leave, she is about to break down again.  So we walk back over to the chairs and sit down.  My mother has stopped crying.  She sits, slumped over, staring at the ground.  Someone is standing in front of her with their hand on her shoulder.  He is trying to get through, almost shaking her, bending down to make eye contact but she doesn't look up and he puts his hands in his pockets for a minute before walking away.  

“Are you sure he didn't suffer at the last minute?”  My sister pleads at me with her eyes. 

“No.  He didn't.  I promise.” 

But in those last few minutes he did wake up.  I was at home, folding laundry, and my brother’s wife calls.  She tells me to rush over to the house as soon as I can but it takes me 20 minutes even with the gas pedal pushed nearly to the ground the entire way.  I came into the room and he seemed asleep, mostly, and then suddenly he wasn't.  He starting kicking his legs and my mother reached out to him, put her hand on his shoulder and she’s terrified because he’s trying to wake up.  His wife screams “Wake up!  Just wake up!” and he tries.  His eyes open, just for a moment.  He looks right at my mother and his eyes are suffused and bright with terror.  For a moment.  Just before. 

I don’t tell my sister this.  I just sit with my hands in my lap, try not to see the people milling around, acting in their bereavement, as if they understand everything that happened.  

I’m a contrived beauty.

If I were grim faced Hester Prynn

Framed in a solemn, white hat and loose, billowy drapes

Of religious chastity

I would fade into a sea of pale, droning faces

Yearning, like all of them, for the slightest indication

I was something singular. 

But that’s not me. 

I find the means from bottles

And jars, pallets, sprays, boots,

Liquid fantasy

And all the singularity I receive ordinarily  

Is wholly contrived.  

You’re such a mess.

Look at your feelings spilling all over the floor

Your heart clutched in your fist.    

It’s immature, all this blood and pain. 

And then the tears, loathsome.  It’s not death.  Not this. 

Have you tried the egg salad croissant?  That’s worse than death.

But death isn’t worse.  

Death blows smoke into your brain, languidly soaks every dark corner
Until you hide a serrated knife under the seat of your car.

For safety.  For comfort.  Just in case you decide to let go of the heart in your fist. 

You reach under the seat to make sure the knife is still there

Gleaming with the charm of a vampire, panting, scratching ….

There are lines carved into your arm, the battered map to oblivion: 

Tender supplication.    

I’ve tried the egg salad croissant. 

The flaky, sodden bread spongy and sad at the bottom

A mess

Worse than death. 

Max's father has disappeared again and I have no idea where he is.  His family won't talk to me, but I know he isn't in jail because I checked all of that....he's just gone.  Max tells me he hasn't seen his dad in days and the thing is, even Max is secretive about it.  It's all covered up, protecting him while Max is tossed around from family member to family member while nobody thinks to call me.  

The poem I wrote was about Adam getting out of jail and then asking me for money.  When I saw him, his pants were belted down just above his knees and he covered max with kisses and words and said he would pick him up that night but never showed.  And the next day he never called and didn't think to see Max though it had been over a week since he had seen him.  The guy is really cracking up, it seems.  And I wish I could figure out where the fuck he is.  

With Alexis maybe.  In the woods.  With heroine and a tent.  Just a possibility.  

Anyway, so much to write about.  This horrible boredom.  But later.  

My visit with Adam.  He went to jail again.  For heroin.

I wait in the front seat, with my knees tucked under my legs.

Watch you kiss his plump cheeks, make him giggle,

He glows, flushes, fondles every word, every breath,

Your hallowed love. 

I am trying to remember…

Did you look at me? 

I know you didn’t think to. 

I tugged on your pants, too low, so childish,

Here’s your foolish money

And I shoved it into your pocket. 

I have a secret.  Tucked under my knees. 

A holy longing, residual virtuousness,

Haunted by woebegone ghosts. 

Infinitely, reverently untouched.