Poem of the Month
You ask too much.
Surely there are other avenues
to remind the body of its sins.
I hold an existential fear of dread.
In light slit by childhood’s door,
in the generations past
for whom they came after midnight
bringing a toy train
with straw to shit in.
Striped pajamas worn politely by all.
Comrade, stand at attention, salute
my great great grandmother
who comes stiffly from bedroom
to chamber to shower,
as I was told, in the gas.
Is it you again? Haven’t you learned enough
to leave the sedentary body
of age? Don’t wave, it means hello.