I have written prose about my sister before. More than once. Tonight, I share a poem and a song. These about my relationship with her. It has been a long day! Thanks for reading. Back to snark, policy, and science tomorrow. This first poem comes from my collection called “The Hellthread.” Yes, that is a whole collection of poems. This is one.
I have been reminded About the compliance standards for purchases on the flight And similar to my family Contactless is the new black. When I was a kid I would scream “Don’t touch me” At my sister Who would laugh with glee when What was left of my foreskin at 5 years old Was mauled and trapped by The demon zipper Of my footie pajamas. She died at 47 of failure to breathe On the floor of a bathroom. The blue of her skin just about Matching accent tile to the penny tile Her husband laid by hand…I hear the echo of “Brub’s Peep” — She used to remind me about my juvenile penile injuries. Often. Substance Detected: Heroin + Tramadol + THC - Oxazepam + Diazepam + Olanzapine + The autopsy report showed enough drugs in her system to explain her drifting away into the “contactless” beyond. It didn’t explain why her husband spent more time considering the call to 911 than he did the call to order the tile for the bathroom. To be frank, she was a difficult partner in life and an easier one in death and empathy isn’t infinite. Brub’s Peep. An odd sort of eulogy.
The song is from my album “The City of Woe.” It is called Flies Don’t Gather. Thanks for reading, listening, and reading some more. Having readers, on the daily, was not an experience I had imagined before I started this rather quixotic newsletter. Your willingness to stick with me, and follow the threads from personal to policy, satire to science, and stupid to serious is a delight. Today I say: thank you for reading—seriously.