raquel is in the bathtub and the dog
still has his testes. on tv
they eat pastitsio which donna
brought with your marijuana
when you were still well enough
to mispronounce pastitsio.
there’s a groundhog in the garden
we planted and never watered but still
i blame him for the fruitlessness.
its three months now and I know
I haven’t visited your headstone
but the muffins smell like nutmeg
and at least I remember to enter
“flax muffin: three net carbs”
into an excel sheet labeled “diet”.
three days it took the son of god
and three days i’ve been sober.
no resurrections yet but i have visions
of a hundred holy bathtimes you scrubbed
my ears to keep potatoes from growing.
note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their intended order, start here.