Death / Poetry

10 Days Late

I missed her birthday by ten days,
not that it matters because
she’s dead.
But I thought this year I’d be different,
certain it was 4/30.
I even
prepared my
tears. And almost sent
out “dead grandparent dinner”
invitations.
I’d serve lasagna.
Guests could bring a dish made with
grief
and handwritten recipe cards.
Instead I should have been
getting stoned-
4/20/1934-
and crying
and seeing things
like
her face.
Now it’s May Day.
The lilacs are blooming purple
punches to the gut.
And I’m spiking lemonade with
vodka
and
gin
and feeding my kid too many Oreos,
because fuck,
life’s too
damn
short.

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