I laid my mattress in the living-room. And camped out every day with the shades pulled down to block out the light
from outside. I ate and ate until my weight was one-hundred and seventy-five. I had just miscarried my baby girl. Her name would have been
Sarah if she came into this world. But she never made it to her May birthday – She was taken in a very sober October when the colors of the leaves shined against
my pale face and barren waist. We died the same way, taken before we could consummate, like I did with Jim. And after we had our fling he died too. Then I turned full-on to
the bottle. My son never made it home from the hospital. It was too much to bear on anyone – and this old woman is no longer young. But still depressed, spending her time in a cold basement
video-taping ******* – *******, *** and ***** for money. Her poems are just as her baby girl, son and Jim – all brain dead. No light has been shed on a one – if it doesn’t involve a **** or tongue