Today, I thought I'd repost a poem from my third book, Damnatio Memoriae (literally, "Damned Memory"). Be well!
Now that my mother is dead, I’m free
the second Sunday of my every May
to go fishing, to not call home,
to run around the yard with scissors.
I can shy away from Hallmark stores
and not feel guilty for going out
with unwashed ears. If I like, later,
I’ll splurge on wine and a nice dinner—
alone, of course, since all my friends
are off with their smiling makers,
presenting boxed gratitude in a house
whose door they close behind them.