News From Madison, Wisconsin

I picture you clasping the noose in those pale hands, 

slender fingers calloused from wire strings—

trembling like the first time you slipped them up my skirt,

cautiously, nails long and palms cold.

Maybe you shaved your beard—

put on my old lipstick and mascara.

Perhaps you heard me, tittering,

combing through your wiry hair

with some cherry scented potion

as we talked about Bowie and Chopin.

Or you might have kept the beard

and put on your leather jacket—

cigar in your mouth, Zeppelin on the turntable. 

Did you ever earn enough change in Penn Station

to see the doctor about your cough?

Whose stained couch were you sleeping on,

and did they know you like your coffee sweet?

That you’re afraid of mirrors in the dark?

That your hazel eyes turn green before you cry?

I hope you told them about the graveyard

where we writhed in snarled weeds,

and I snagged my yellow dress on a rusty gate.

I see you swigging rum and Nyquil

in a beat up prom dress,

or a faded suit,

or your Lennon shirt.

It doesn’t matter if you shaved your face, or your legs,

or any part of your body I wasn’t there to touch.

All I can think of is your hands

playing notes in the air—

too fine for a man’s, too big for a woman’s,

and too soft to pick coins off a bus terminal floor

or tune a violin in the cold.

(2014)