The Death of Starfish and Submarines

By noon, the coastline reeks of it:
rotting fish, rotting soil,
and all the little shorebirds hopping,
hoping to find free breakfast,
maybe brunch. The tourists
infest the scene quick as flies,
drop their oversized towels,
open lemonades, complain how loud
the gulls are—those rats of the sky.

The Death of Grandmothers

She lay broken at the bottom
of her cellar stairs for eight days
before the neighbor wondered
and called the police
and they wandered in
and carried her out
while the dogs protested
and the house protested
and even the limp dead body
protested. Then it was lunchtime
and they left her in the trunk
while they stopped for cokes
and gasoline and talked about
whose wife was prettiest.

The Death of the Butterfly Bush

This year the early frost came unsympathetic
and silenced all the life of my garden.
The monarchs fled to Mexico
and all the little pink flowers
withered from the heartbreak.

The Death of Presidents and Popes

The day that Ronald Reagan died
all our fathers cried and cried
but you and I just wondered why
the sorrow never stays.

The Death of Childhood

Isn’t it strange
how easily fantasies fade?
Sunday morning, eight years old,
looking through mother’s closet
in hopes to find the perfect have-to-have
to wear to church and I
accidentally find
all my baby teeth hidden
in the back of her jewelry box.

The Death of Love Affairs

Sick body, sick mind,
sometimes death comes
without the soft fluttering of eyelids.
In bed, cold morning, and your landline
rings on and endlessly on.
I used to call you at 2 a.m.
to tell you of my bad dream.
In it, I have two heads.
The good head sings to our children
about castles and strange, blue flowers.
The bad head knows that in the morning
you won’t be there to cook me eggs.