mercy/thanksgiving

                                   Sitting on a porch in Old Town half a block from
                                   the Waterfront. My mother's old diamond sparlking
                                   on my finger liquid rainbows like a setting star grown huge on the horizon.
I always freak out this time of year. My mother died one Thanksgiving morning ages ago. Breast cancer crept into her brain, creating bizarre delusions. Thought my Dad was holding a gun to her head; it was really his keys; he thought that was funny.

Visitors stroll right down the middle of the street. A little giddy
with the hot fragrant air of Key West. Confident. Just knowing there’s
fun in store.
She insisted me (13) and my brother (16) go to the big Thanksgiving pre-game bonfire. She didn’t know I loathed to go: hyperactive crowds and noise and frozen toes and fingers and the simple-minded “rah-rah-rah” school spirit I never did get the spirit but I played clarinet in the band to please her and she was dead when we got home.

Music plays from B. O.’s Fishwagon, “Ain’t That a Shame?” And people cheering.
I don’t remember a single friend at her funeral. They may have been there. They didn’t talk to me. Dad a silent hunched figure took one valium it made him cry so no more of those, not ever. Never ever. Right before they shut the coffin my couin Frankie--lots older, 20 at least--put his arm around me and I sobbed. I remember because he was the only one who dared and only that once, prickly pear cactus that I’d become. My brother said: be strong. My favorite aunt told me to wear waterproof mascara for the next viewing.
Three viewings
Three viewngs
Three motherfucking viewings.
Endless handshakes from strangers pitying young mother lost, “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry”. Grandfather leans over and admonishes me to say “thank-you” whenever someone says “I’m sorry”. Sorry.
Sorry Thanks Sorry Thanks Sorry Thanks Sorry Thankssorrythankssorrythankssorrythanks
They’re all so fucking sorry. I hate them. Be strong. Sorry thanks I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry.
Pieces of people appear through the white porch railing,
Heads hidden by the banister top. Many say “Hi!” It’s a
mindlessly friendly sort of town. I like that about Key
West. I say “Hi!” back but I can’t really see them.

I hate this time of year. The deification of turkey slaughter. The gleeful devouring of dead flesh. Beautiful colorful paper turkeys children cut and paste as we admonish them to cut and taste real dead birds. I will tear these pretty pieces off the door of my detox room in the looney bin. They will say nothing but tape another up. And tape another up andtapeanotherup as I patter to the toilet just in time shaking and puking and hallucinating like an old gutter drunk drinking 65 years I’m 24 I’m in Cornell Law School I’m lapping Maalox like a cat at the nurses station because my hands shake too much to hold the plastic shot glass. People hate me when I fail to say “thanks”.

Men spit lung cookies on the sidewalk. Thanks for sharing.
Give me your TB your Bird Flu. Some women spit too, but
them we put on psych units.
I always get a little crazy this time of year.
Fluffy grey cat joins me on the porch. Does it live here?
Little girl’s allergic. It may be feral; it’s hard to tell.
Key West is a town that takes care of its strays.
Faint tabby stripes. Tiny ears.
White chin. Little kink at the end of her tail.
And too many toes.
I couldn’t write without cats.

Mommy bald, mommy throwing up non-stop, her feet pattering to make it from th couch to the bathroom. Finally gave in to a basin by the couch, covered, which she cleaned out herself many times a day. I, wrapped in spoiled selfish adolescent horror ignored it. Her. Hid in the basement hugging the noisy dirty coal furnace when she screamed in pain. Ungrateful little bitch. Terrified child trapped in sinking ship with no Exit sign lit.
White whiskers droop.
Dark eyes outlined in white.
Swivels her ears and turns to me when I address her,
turns back to the smell of a good catch being hauled onto
the dock. Putrefaction stoped for now by ice ice ice and
more ice.
My brother always wanted to work in an ice house he said. Became a doctor instead. Grateful for his success so my failure would not be the end of father’s hope. Me the black sheep black suits me fine but does show cat hairs who cares in the looney bins where I take notes I am not a real patient I will write a book about this someday I the eternal audience watching watching watching and never learning.
White chin, white belly, belly in bloom,
She cleans her teats like a good mama cat.

Mommy a corpse. Smiling blue eyes and peppermint gum and freckled skin and summer days at the county club pool fade to black. Hammering technicolor close-ups of corpse flesh in full maggoty blowfly bloom. Eyes squeeze tight squeeze tight squeeze tight shut forever to the light. I willed myself a creature of the night, I followed my greatest love to the grave and I set up camp there. I married a man with 6 months to live. Twenty years later he tired of walking hand in hand ready for his imminent death any day any day you better do this for me now I could die any day for twenty years we walked the lintel line between life and death and I was comfortable there till my usefulness got used up and I was tossed back into life against my will my wishes. I do not belong with the living I want to rest among the dead
Another kitty-cat squeezes throught the railings.
I’m a nurse now, on and off duty. I help crippled strangers up and down stairs. I help blind people know where they are and who’s around and what the dangers are. I buy palm frond roses from smelly drunks on Duval. I’m disabled myself get a check every month to prove it but I can wash my own basin thanks. I can never atone never atone never atone. Mercy, please, someone. I crave to see my own blood. Dripping from my wrists. Pouring out of my belly. And I need it to hurt,
Black and white with
Tender amber eyes.
I couldn’t live without cats.