The last poem I'll read is called
"Mother Bleeds from the Mouth."
It's the last poem in my new manuscript.
"The ocean laves one long line where the sun sets, how red.
My hand waves at it, all meaning wry, since no one's around.
Around and around, a scarf beats in the sunset wind,
DNA against cloud.
Maybe my hand waves for that.
Maybe I should speak.
The ocean closes and closes."
Maybe I should have one of those dramatic drinks now.