Anniversary

Two small boxes full of dead boyfriend.
I saved just a few ashes.
The rest of him in Italy, somewhere.
Buried in the family plot
which I refused to witness.

I carried him there like a courier,
in a zinc-lined box labeled BIOHAZARD
instead of in a proper coffin.
Embassy regulations. International red-tape.
(Never mind my tears. Or feelings.)

And him burned up just because.
And the family screaming.

Too much. Too much
to think of or remember.
But this would have been
eighteen years.
Half a lifetime; or a lifetime.
Over.

Summer Day : June 4, 2003

What can you do when the earth shatters under your feet
but fall into the crevice and hope either to recuperate or die?

You sit in that dark, smoking hole
amidst the debris
of what had been
a normal, regular life;
with sunshine and house facades,
and perfectly tended lawns,
and immaculate plots of flowers,
fine shrubbery always just the right shade of green;
and everything else that's beautiful and ideal.

You sit in that hole
choking on the fine, ideal dust of it:
A dream that had been so fucking lovely
you thought you'd die from its perfection.

Then,
one day,
everything shifts,
just slightly.
And the precarious balance
of its loveliness
is thrown off,
and there goes
your precious fantasy—
in an avalanche of rosebuds,
wood panelling, antique glass,
your grandmother's tea cups,
all the once-worn clothes
you believed were so beneficial.
It all comes down on you
in dust and darkness;
and covers you up.

And meanwhile,
the sunshine is still glowing;
and all the neighbors are on the street,
standing just at the edge of everyone else's lawn,
admiring the beautiful, chemical perfection of it all.

And no one notices the smoking dust
settling over you. No one misses you.
No one needs you to remind them
of the dust-drenched meaninglessness of it all.

Because they have full faith
in the beauty brought
by a lawn cut just so high,
and a shrub trimmed just so square,
and a life opened just so wide.