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.