Shakespeare’s felicity is so often taughtit is easy to overlook how tautthe sinews in his neck musthave been when he grasped his pen, or the muskthat exuded from the fat of his chinbelow a somewhat chthonic grin—life wrestled death on his desk when he composed.

Will there be no more irisesin your garden tomorrow morning,or perhaps any rainbows that covetyour roof will melt into Rorschach pastelsin your gutters and birdsongs in your windowsturn into shrill shriekings as you recallhow, for one moment, you were as braveand equal to beauty as that which you feel?Can’t a world end gloriously?

As hard as the diamonds in your smile,the wind carries its hammers with no handsand sustains a moan with no mouth,seems to cradle solitude in its rough arms like firewoodto be burned in my house as it passes throughand asks, “Where does she sparkle from?

As children we learned our shadowis a darkness we never totally shakeuntil we lie down, pull the shades,draw the curtains, shut out the world,and turn our own light out.

Above us all rose my mother’s hand, dangling from the column shifterlike some battle-tattered flag for independence, surroundedby the glass shards and quietude of a parking lot gone empty.My beautiful mother, safer than ever before,even in defection. ¼ tank of gas, fully empowered,her car pointed in every direction.

The judge sentenced us to life—real, awake lifeout of the jails we had been roaming in—life in prism—then started handing out finesfor parking too long.

I’d reconstruct Heaven, or usurp Hell—write till I swing open like a door hinge.I arrive—a rogue who’d refurbish town.I take my pen, begin to nail things down.

These words are my mother’s,my father’s, my brother’s, my lender’s, my garbageman’s—the poem runslike oil on firebeneath this earth where we know each other.Witness the black smoke everywhere.

My fist is her flag still furled. Take the cannoli and leave the tuxedo - This is my jackleg opera to the world.