you spoke often of the
horrible headaches and hunches
of your childhood

singing lessons, fever.
tattoo ink, stuffy nose.
loud voices, blurry vision.

(perhaps because you were
too much for your own body to
handle!)

they called you many things
beauty, devil, and a poet.
but you only wanted thing—
to be a musician of fine arts
to leave your handprint on the world
the ***** and the girls!
oh my! what a world!

angelus dulce! hear my call!
sole lover of my house and heart!
i do regret to inform you all
‘‘twas more than the song of angels
and saints that tore us apart.

(i dare to say
that some days
i still hear him sing)