The hull looked vaguely familiar to the Old Man.
It might have belonged to a fishing boat he saw as a boy.
Or to the corvette he crossed the Atlantic on in WWII.
It might have even been his son's, which he never rode.

By the time he matched the image of the hull
With the random ones strewn about his mind,
It was ten feet above him, rising, and fading
Into the darkness that was beginning to envelop him.

When "Nursing Home Outing" presented itself to him,
The stabbing of the cold water made its way through his coat,
And a bubble of oxygen demanded release from his lungs.
Was that hull falling? Was he rising to meet it?

He acquiesced to the demand but kept just enough

To think happily of the girls he loved in his teens,
The wife he met in his twenties, the children and grandchildren,
And--then a knife-light told him to kick kick kick.

But his clothes weighed him down and another
Bubble batter-rammed at his glottis, and he knew.
Would the peaceful light at the end of the tunnel be eternity
Or a cruel joke of oxygen-deprived brain chemistry?

He breathed out for the last time. As he was about to suck in sea-water,
He realized that the water pressure above and below him had equalized
And that he was stopped, bobbing imperceptibly in perfect stasis.
The water, freezing, felt warm, even though no sunlight reached him.

He thought he felt his mother rub her stomach and coo,
And it made him gasp.

And smile contently as he rolled over and went to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

No. He already had his life stolen from him;

I could not also steal from him his name.

 

. . . .

Greg Cote had an icing

That made him easy on the palate.

A square jaw, well-placed hair

And an ease with words

Made girls break their diets, so to speak.

 

Only after they got to know him

Did they see the anger he carried.

 

He was chocolate-covered dog shit

And he knew it, so he worked hard

On his sweetness, refining his recipe

With more and more sugar

But always knowing the crap was there.

 

Each flopped relationship was analyzed;

The icing was increased and better placed

For next time.

 

By his early twenties he had perfected his recipe,

A chocolaty swirled yet layered cake

That hid a self-loathing nut at the centre.

 

He met, he wooed, he wed,

All the while hiding what he knew must happen:

An angry word or shove that showed

The morsel was not so tasty.

 

His mother knew and even told Dawna,

But she had to learn for herself.

When she did, she gathered 5 year old Henry and became

Greg’s ex-wife. “Stupid cow’s” and “fucking bitch’s”

So dominated his thoughts

That the recipe suffered and

The icing crusted and fell away.

 

But the dog shit remained.

 

Greg knew Henry was being poisoned,

Poisoned by his ex-wife and mother,

“My own mother, for Chrissakes,”

So he made sure their weekends

Were sweet, always telling Henry

“Someday, we won’t have to say goodbye.”

 

It was a hot July Sunday when Greg parked,

So he kept the car running for the air conditioning

And let the dog out before he did anything else.

 

(Editor’s Note: The Bastard couldn’t bring himself to kill his dog.)

 

are you hungry, buddy?

here’s some chocolate swirl cake.

don’t make crumbs drink this

it will keep you cool

 

have a sleep i’ll take you home . . .

 

she will be frantic soon

rum and hose in the trunk

wash these pills down

connect the hose

“join you in oblivion”

 

A Perfect Plan:

leave my scars behind but leave scars behind

that will never heal . . .

 

Dawna was determined

That Greg not have the last word

And that him murdering Henry

Not define Henry’s life.

 

When her first In Memoriam appeared,

It was brave and poignant.

 

The next three came to focus

On Henry’s legacy of laughter

Rather than the emptiness of his absence.

 

By the fifth, Dawna had

Met, wooed, and wed,

And conception no longer seemed like betrayal.

 

But forgiveness was for others

And always would be.