it because he’s 16 and thinks I am so old
he can persuade me to distrust my own olfactions.
He displays other corny emotions
like saying, Fine, I‘ll move in with my mother (the addict)
or with my dad (who paints his body with magic markers),
all the while this boy knows I will say
what I said, which is that I love you
too much
but I don’t say the rest, which is
I wish I didn’t
because life would be easier.
Wouldn't it?
Wouldn't life be easier
without this boy
who struts away grinning while I am still speaking?
This reckless boy with pimples
and a weird hairdo
who seems not to care
about his mind-body connection
& inhales tobacco and pot
as if they were fresh mountain air?
Or would life be easier without him
to greet at dinner
though white buds breathe sounds
in both ears?
I try to imagine no voice at all
in these rooms
where a previous generation
turned up the boom boxes and made
havoc of their brains with my wine.
Imagine.
Just me here
with memories of all that
but not just that. Of love notes too,
and of huddling together
on the sofa—all much worth living
over again.
Only now more helplessly
because I am unable to persuade a young mind
without that husband.
I think I would not be happier
without this boy’s voice deepening daily
down the hall
and the giggling little redhead
who face-times him 24/7.
I am sure I would not have learned
to love Juicewrld.
And I admit it. I love this small garden
he planted
for which I paid him $75
though he used it to buy whatever is wafting
like burned basil down the hall.
I wonder often under this part moon,
here in my Garden of Gethsemane.
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