I thought you never wanted me

And all I ever wanted was you

But year along the road, turns out, you never wanted you.

And now that times have passed

And you pushed me far away

You want me in a different light

Too dim for me to stay

    Incense always burned in the basement. Mom would light it and let the smoke pool into the living room through the vents. It stunk up the whole house, creating a smell that was half cigarette, half lavender. As much as we all hated it, it masked the scent of piss and vomit that always radiated off dad.

   He'd been sick for a while. Kidney failure. Taking care of him had only gotten harder. I didn't know why mom still bothered. He was dying. There was nothing anyone could do about it. He couldn't afford a new kidney. He'd practically begged Jo and me to kill him when we'd come to visit together. After all the hell he'd put us through, it was hard not to. 

    Jo had come late the day he died. "Think he'll croak this time?" He asked with a sad grin and dropped his gloves onto the kitchen counter. I sipped dark coffee and chuckled.

    "Let's hope so." It was only half a joke.

    Jo and Chris were too young to remember the first day he'd overdosed. He was supposed to be watching us. Mom had been at work, where she was most the time. "H-hand me that needle, Margey-girl." I was only seven when he'd begged it of me. Shy and scared, I'd handed the thin syringe to him and hugged my knees on the floor. Jo cried in his crib, Chris toddling around him. Next thing I remember was him erupting into a lake of his own vomit and mom making sure he was alive when she'd gotten home. I wished he hadn't been. 

    The first time he'd thrown Chris in the dryer, I was twelve. Making a sandwich for Jo when I heard the thumps and screams and ran into the laundry room. Pushing dad out of the way. I hit the cancel button. He was laughing. "Fuckin' boppin' around like an old pair a sneakers." I could have killed him. I was angry enough, but I didn't. I took Chris from the dryer, swore at him and finished making lunch.

    I wasn't sure how to feel seeing him on his death-couch. Though, I know what I felt when his last words actually hit me. I'd thought, naively so, that maybe it would be redeeming, that whatever he said to me, I'd accept, even if it was some pathetic apology. Chris came later. It was as though dad had been waiting for him to get there. Coughing hoarsely, he called us all over.

   "I'm--bout ready, Margaret," cough, "just wanna tell you--you did okay. For a bunch of," cough, "ungrateful," cough,"life suckers, you did okay. Sorry I'm leavin' y'all, this early, 'know you couldn't do it without me." My eyes stung as his closed. The cynical smile that graced my lips came, unbidden. If he wasn't already dead, I might've strangled him. 

   "Fuck you, dad." I hissed through gritted teeth. Half of it was filled with resentment, and half of it was filled with relief.

After life,

We face a day,

Where everything is swept away,

And in our lives such endings bring,

Solemn voices that solemn sing

It is there that we move along,

And flame away those sad, sad songs,

Tittering and filled with laughter

Better things, tomorrow brings, and in our sweet

Life after

Let it be raining

Let it be hot

Let it be painting

Let it be not

For what fly lives in sullen hope

That with a spider, it will elope?

By what cruel God makes it so, 

That spiders are so beautiful?

Legs like spines, web like silver

Glassy eyes and a lovely shiver

If only I be born one too, 

Instead I be born ones' food

So, let it be that grass is dry

Let it be, the flowers moist,

Let it be, the child cries,

Let it be, my love a choice

Let it be an early Spring

Let it be, I the one to stand beside her

Let true love, no sorrow bring

Let it be, I, the fly, that loves the spider

Shadows slumber as the sun goes down

And Little May Susy walked into town

The darkness blended in with her curls

And George Hart watched for little girls

Storms stretched slowly across the night

Though little May did not feel fright

And as George Hart watched from his room

May's black eyes stirred with gloom

Stars broke clouds in the stormy sky

And George Hart smiled with a steamy eye

May smelled his evil with his witty turn

Her hands glowed and began to burn

She stopped George Hart's sour face

With hands she raised in a heated space

And as fire fled from pale fingers to skin

George Hart never looked at little girls again