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

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.