tragiccomedy

Sophie Scholl’s Last Visit with her Mother: Stadelheim Prison, February 22, 1943               “Die Sonne scheint noch.” –Sophie Scholl’s final words Like watching two thousand doves let loose,               Mama, taking wing from university balconies—                            the descending petals of 1700 white roses dispensing our me

Bound by Blood Ave Maria, Ave, Ave, pray for us, Mary, ohhh pray. She pleads to painted porcelain, fat fingers embracing each other. Her unmarried son’s voice fades. Mom, we’re having a baby. Thirty Hail Mary’s: futile— like the day her sister called, giddy almost to tears with news: Ellen, I’m getting remarried. She cried that day, too, photocopying pages from Principles of Canonical Law, dictating Jesus’ insistence that she boycott her only sister smiling in the ivory gown nearly destroyed by a careless daughter. Seven years later, the only reminder of her niece’s inattention: shadows in a

Arienette Hears Her Song The only part of him mirrors ever watched: powder-coated interior of his left nostril, origin of infamous fevers. But his fans only want to know about the conception of genius, how he brought about sounds that captured madness, the part I played, why I didn’t stay. I want to know what they would do with a sweating pianist shrieking down the telephone line at four a.m., howling apologies at five, screaming again at six. Where are you, Arienette? I want my pound of flesh, & wolves that frighten him can have the rest.

My Mother’s Daughter I’m curling a backward C into your side, the way       I used to, Saturday mornings before you remarried               and I learned to share. Chewie chuffs, so I bury               my face in her fur, and you don’t see me flinch      when you say, You’re built like a 12-year-old boy; soon the only people chasing you will be women. Swaddled in heavy blue velveteen, skin still moist       and smelling of Midnight Pomegranate, I beautify              my reflection, until you come down to make your              voice heard. I wouldn’t even feel comfortable       introducing

For Robert I threw a nickel into the ugly fountain at the Berkshire Mall & wished—       months after Mommy told me cancer       meant very sick & I told her we should       bring you soup and tea— to slide down Penn Avenue stairs, clasp our tiny hands together, raise voices,       bounce our bottoms on every step,       racing up to repeat. Soft splash & clink       of descending metal, Mommy’s tears falling on new pink polyester & her whisper: Baby, I should have told you sooner.

Gilded Zinc Sitting at the table where your girlfriend drinks her coffee every morning, you iron out the lines in your forehead with calloused fingertips, purse your lips and tell me, Right now, this is safe, but you're one of those monumental women. I remember first grade, how I listened to metal chiming against metal against my grandfather's rough skin as I dumped my change. I frowned while he sorted, held the dullest, said, This one is special. After 1983, they replaced bronze and copper with zinc, copper-plated—more beautiful to look at, longer-lasting. You can hear the difference. He dropped a '76 and a '92 onto

Atropos, picking at her bandages: I learned on a fifteen-year-old boy who picked the wrong time to run across the street to the grocery store. Then the tapestry blurred; I couldn't even bring the blades near the loom until Lachesis started laughing. Weep as long as you need to, little sister; he's the one left lying in the middle of the street, taking all the time in the world to die. Clotho interwove her mirth, and I stood mute, clenching metal in my fists until blood dripped onto the skein. In perfect unison they guided my stained fingers, pressed cutting edges to the dangling thread until the wool split, and his mother

Final Bows—Medea at Corinth Tomorrow they will call me a monster, among harsher titles, between prayers and vows for vengeance. Once they put out the final fire, they will leave you to bury charred Creusa and her father beside our two sons. But while I have you here now, think of tomorrow. Calling me monster won't stop this. I still hear my brother pleading, Jason doesn't love; he lusts for power and vengeance. Once you've put out the fire in his loins, he'll already be seeking a new lover— I cut him off, then, with a few well-placed blows. They've called me a killer and a whore across the Aegean, from that first murder to this

Midnight, West Reading Diner —for Justin You were smoking for me, one Camel Light after the other, ground into a pile of ash in a black plastic dish. They weren't your lungs to safeguard, but you were adamant, refusing to share despite my appeals. Setting your Olympus Digital on the table, you watched me on LCD, and I talked to the girl in the mirrored wall, my fingers following the outlines of her clavicles, feeling bone through chilled flesh to soothe petulant nerves, while she lifted a steaming mug to my lips. You let me have the seat aimed at that wall, knowing I needed to consider my reflection, like you knew I