When I was ten (no, younger <br />than that), my mother tried <br />to kill herself (without the facts <br />there can't be faith). One death <br />or another every day, Tanqueray bottles <br />halo the bed and she won't wake up <br />all weekend. In the myth book's color <br />illustration, the poet turns around <br />inside the mouth of hell to look at her <br />losing him (because it's not her fault <br />they had to meet there): so he can keep her <br />somewhere safe, save her place <br />till she comes back. Some say <br />she stepped on an asp, a handful of pills <br />littered the floor with their blues, <br />their red and yellow music. Al Green <br />was on the radio. (You were <br />at school, who's ever even seen <br />an asp?) It bruised her heel <br />purple and black. So death <br />could get some color to fill out <br />his skin, another bony white boy <br />jealous of all her laugh too loud, her <br />That's my song when Barry White <br />comes on. He's just got <br />to steal it, he can't resist <br />a bad pun, never never gonna give her <br />up, or back. The pictures don't prove <br />anything, but one thing I remember <br />about the myth's still true: <br />the man can't live if she does. <br />She survived to die for good.<br /><br />Reginald Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/orpheus-plays-the-bronx/
