Jane Whitfield Is Dead

[I) July 10th, 1993]

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.

[II) September 17th, 1995]

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

[III) May 3rd, 2043]

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.

[IV) January 25th, 2051]

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.