Dorothy Barresi

“A cross is a poor shade tree in earthquake weather.”

“Your enemies call it comeuppanceand relish the detailsof a drug too fine, how longyou must have dangled there beside yourself.In the middle distance of yourtwenty-ninth year, night split openlike a fighter's bruised palm,a purple ripeness.Friends shook their heads.With you it was alwaysthe next attractive trouble,as if an arranged marriage had been madein a country of wing walkers, lion tamers,choirboys leaping from bellpullsinto the high numb glitter, and you,born with the breath of wild on your tonguebrash as gin.True, it was charming for a while.Your devil's balance, your debts.Then no one was laughing.Hypodermic needles and cash registersemptied themselves in your presence.Cars went head-on.Sympathy, old motor, ran outor we grew old, our tongueswearing little grooves in our mouthsclucking disappointment.Michael, what pulled you upby upstart rootsand set you packing,left the rest of us here, body-heavyon the edge of our pews.Over the reverend's lamentwe could still hear laughter, your mustachethe angled black wingsof a perfect crow. Laterwe taught ourselves the proper method for mourninghaphazard life: salt, tequila, lemon.Drinking and driftingin your honor we barely felt a thing.”

“The story the body lives in is crazythere is no end to it but change.”