Four poems


WANDAWOOWOO LOUD

I’ve trained my face

to look calm, especially

when fraught. My last lover

said I’m peaceful. It’s funny

how people can stand inside

a volcano and not feel lava

on their feet. The louder we cry,

the closer Death comes—to comfort us,

to help us be quiet

for a long, long time.

WANDAWOOWOO BUYS A CLOCHE HAT FOR $1.99

My grandmother claimed her

cloche hat had magic powers. Grandfather

asked her for a dance,

proposed a month later. Magic?

Not really. A bad marriage

full of extended credit,

extended lies,

extended time

like soggy tuna fish.

The hat made her feel

in style.

She didn’t wear one to church,

Fearing she’d be judged a floozy,

cheap—judgment followed her

around like a dog. Sometimes

when everyone had fallen asleep,

she’d put it on—forks, pans,

and rubber gloves greeted her

in the kitchen—called her the life

of the party, grandfather snor