Howard Firkin
i.m. Vicki Bartlett
Lost and confounded; behind the ifs and buts,
the oldest thug: mortality; its flecks
of spittle on my face; knee in my nuts;
the simple ache beneath our every complex—
the key you feel unwinding in your back.
We gather here to celebrate and mourn
someone who never had a snowflake’s chance.
Like all of us, she happened to be born,
was pitched into this spastic, clockwork dance,
and fought to keep her feet through every track.
Don’t make me sing a hymn. Don’t make me pray
and look for God among the black shoe laces.
When no one here has any more to say,
I’ll go. Don’t let me see her children’s faces.
the oldest thug: mortality; its flecks
of spittle on my face; knee in my nuts;
the simple ache beneath our every complex—
the key you feel unwinding in your back.
We gather here to celebrate and mourn
someone who never had a snowflake’s chance.
Like all of us, she happened to be born,
was pitched into this spastic, clockwork dance,
and fought to keep her feet through every track.
Don’t make me sing a hymn. Don’t make me pray
and look for God among the black shoe laces.
When no one here has any more to say,
I’ll go. Don’t let me see her children’s faces.