POEMS


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« March Thaw
Juneau, Alaska
| Main | Monday Afternoon »

Mariah Means Death in Italian

The first child, by her naming, split
the family, Italian grandmother
against German

father. Sixteen years now, she sits
in her grandmother's room, remembering
summer visits:

the dark house; her grandmother in
a white slip in the Cleveland heat; the smell
of Brach candies

and Pall Mall cigarettes. The sound
of the screen door. Mariah's grandmother
calls her by her

mother's name. She begs for one more
cigarette, tells the family secrets,
swears Mariah

to endless silence. Mariah
closes her eyes, listens to the murmur
of night nurses.

She hears the screen door swing. The old
woman grips her hand to aching. She breathes
that city heat.

   

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  • Disclaimer

    Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.

    In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.

    It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.

    A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.


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