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May 23, 2015

You say you didn’t know
your father, that your mother
stepped off a roof, as if
that is some excuse for
bad behavior, for being a slut.

I say, Ask Proust, ask Kerouac:
the past is what we say it is.
The Road goes ‘cross country
in our imagination, the path
splits, but meets again at the end.

Sometimes the “s” sticks
or spell-check changes our life
when we look away — that’s not
what I meant, but once said
it becomes the poem
we become famous for.


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