You come at night to say you’re leaving,
have dreamed of freedom for so long.
and more, you love another—old familiar song.
I call for Mother in my grieving,
but, in her own dream, she’s not speaking.
The children, uninvolved, won’t say you’re wrong.
Our friends are not surprised, say don’t prolong
the misery, the pain, by not accepting
that you’re gone. Because I refuse to hear
the first time you say you really have to go,
you speak again, louder than before, and wear
a new love on your …


      for Jill Young

Angels file their nails, floss their teeth,
play charades and trivial pursuit,
always taking pains to keep
their fingers busy
knowing full well to be idle—
even for …