The Wake, by Linda Ann LoSchiavo

The Wake
by Linda Ann LoSchiavo

The funeral’s assemblage–standing room
Full–humid honeycomb of black-winged veils
Amid a lone queen bee who, rumors say,
Is now quite wealthy, stared as the young priest
Recalled the life of the deceased, a man
He never met.  In air arranged by gnats,
This widow might feel the scourge of jealousy
Of wasp-waisted blonde mistresses who sought
The secret bin of sweetness avidly
But dreamt a better end to this affair.

Anonymous bouquets surround his bier.
All roses have been shorn of thorns as if
Transgressive floral displays might cause tears
Throughout the endless swarm from honey-house.

An accidental overdose occurred
Before her husband could file for divorce
As planned.  Conspicuously, her eyes close
While mourners pray or check their buzzing phones.

Her mind is cataloguing shameful stings
Of infidelity.  Son of a b.

Native New Yorker Linda Ann LoSchiavo is completing her 2nd documentary film on Texas Guinan [1884-1933] and dodging gun-molls in Shubert Alley and in decommissioned speakeasies. To revive her spirits, she puts pen to paper.
101 Fiction, Hawaii Review, Ink & Letters, Metamorphose, Measure, Mused, Peacock Journal, Windhover, and Nous are recent credits.

Snow Drops, by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

Snow Drops
by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

We planted snow drops right before Leigh died,
His way of coming out next spring, the first
Who’d muscle through tough ground, out-stripping Lent–
Hard-packed with Christ and crocuses each place
You looked, as gaudy gay as Mardi Gras.

Leigh never lived white life out loud, his name
Changing like Easter bonnets, pegged to who
Was listening. He took me to a church,
Cried at my cousin’s wedding. Someone told
Me, “You’re next.” We suspected Leigh, best man
To spoil my soul, help me rehearse my loss,
Try out my strength. Love showed me hard things, Leigh,
Last snowfall your sworn downfall. Snow drops, Leigh,
White-stamped your final passport–just renewed.

Process notes: Recently, there was a death in my family; my favorite aunt died Jan. 28, 2017. Also on June 15th, 2017 there will be a memorial concert for poet-violinist Kate Light, who died of cancer at age 56. Talking to the organizers about the event and Kate’s last days bring back memories of all the times I featured her at my long-running NYC poetry series. The people in the poem are not Kate nor my aunt–but I have been in a “funeral state of mind” lately.

Native New Yorker Linda Ann LoSchiavo is completing her 2nd documentary film on Texas Guinan [1884-1933] and dodging gun-molls in Shubert Alley and in decommissioned speakeasies. To revive her spirits, she puts pen to paper.
101 Fiction, Hawaii Review, Ink & Letters, Metamorphose, Measure, Mused, Peacock Journal, Windhover, and Nous are recent credits.