It’s been so long, since when did hope breathe its way into poetry


Since when did the doves descend in the stanzas? I saw one I think. She was like a mother to me, holding me in her ruffles. I wanted to stay. The dirt under my fingernails has been used for ink for so long I forgot these verses could keep me in Christ’s hair, bobbing in a sky way of deliverance. Since when does hope exist at all? I’ve been breathing the fumes with the garage door down. I could use the air. Death is only following this simple plan with the towels blocking the bottom to keep the carbon monoxide in. Believe me, I know that’s the way my grandfather went and I keep circling the stupid cottage where he did it. This is an appeal to sympathy as I’m chained to his eyes, the way he smoked a cigarette, even his brand. O Grampy forgive me for not honoring your misery, amen. Days without any human contact in Cape May. How miserable was the sunlight? You didn’t even leave a note to explain. Send a dove through my verses I need to breathe from the white flap under her wings, there’s nothing here but a panic attack of your memory.

(from the poetry chapbook THE PANIC ATTACK CHRONICLES which can be read here-