A favorite topic among poetic classmates under 25,
whose deepest pain was felt while burying
old skin and bone, those whose now barely resemble
the wild life once lived.
My grandfather died in March, I didn’t care to see him
on his deathbed that blustering week. I was 20.
I used his death as an excuse to stand bundled in a winter coat,
boots in the snow, chain-smoking cigarettes even after
they killed my father. My boyfriend had no right to complain
about the smell that clung in my short, red hair,
or the tar that would damage my fragile lungs.
I drove the hour home in a blank white
blizzard, thinking how poetic it would be
to lose control and meet my end in a pitch black
dress, deep black eyeliner, squeaky clean hair.
At the funeral, no one gave a eulogy,
I made to back to school for my 3 o’clock class.