Size / / /

Sons of muses know

the score—we follow,

heroic, in mother's footsteps.

It's duty, we're told. That's me

in the couplet, me the allusion,

a metaphor, a cipher: my name

carries weight. Personified

regret, I shorthand weakness,

and so am forced to relive

the worst day of my life

ad infinitum in the pages

of Best American Poetry.

What kind of afterlife

is this? Eternal humiliation

so another man won't

have to say, my love, I tried

to save you, but I was stupid

and now you are lost. Enough.

Find another monkey, try

admitting your own faults

for a change. I'm heading

somewhere sunny, umbrella

drink in hand. Don't call. This time,

there's no looking back, and

I'm taking Persephone with me.

Let the Pacific absorb our voices

into the pounding white noise waves.




Erin Keane lives, works, and writes in Louisville, Ky. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Spoon River Poetry Review, Heartland Review, and other publications. You can learn more about Erin at her website.
%d bloggers like this: