Jane Whitfield Is Dead

Jane’s clenched legs writhe. Soot dress dance flannel
sheets. Inane lush that can’t decide, but I’m snared
here. I wake flustered in her bedroom that I can’t
escape. I weep here’s something that can never change.
This marriage is make believe. Cook slop meal; and
sew t-shirt; and wash my plate; and make bunk bed. I
never asked these things, because Jane’s now dead.
Jane’s found dead, long dead. Left me to this lonely bed.
Hoard of locust mad.
Jane floats down the aisle. Voluptuous cream
wedding dress. Family and friends tight smiles. Razor
near. «I do,"and I promise on the bottle lover’s grave.
She sighs, «our timeless loyalty is branded change.»
This marriage is make believe. Mow front lawn; and
wash sports car; and cut slab wood; and pain garage;
but we’re not a sexist pair. Because Jane’s now dead.
Because Jane’s been dead. Because Jane’s found dead,
long dead. Stranded to this frigid bed. Pacific bottom
sad.
I’ll mourn her softly
A-frame by Winchester stream. Trimmed hedge
with daisies. Fields. Stained plank ceder fence. My
gramps' ponies. She’ll shit a brick. I bet. Our house to
raise a family. She’ll shit. I bet. We’ll grow old
together. Snail slow and ancient gray. Racquetball on
tuesday morning. Playing eucker. Sipping tea; and
watch the sun die from our rocking chairs. We’ll gum
sweet oatmeal holding dishpan hands. She’ll shit a
brick. I bet. To watch our children married. She’ll shit.
I bet. To see us when we’re ninety, sleeping in on church
sunday. Playing our dated CD’s that we bought in my
twenties.
This marriage is make believe. Now I’m crying on
her body as she passed away without me, and left me this
bitter old man; because Jane’s now dead, because Jane’s
been dead. Because Jane’s found dead. My wife’s now
dead. My wife’s found dead. Jane’s left dead.