When they ask me what I'm writing, I'll point them here.

THE NIGHT SHE FLEW TO SABBATH

She wasn’t a beautiful woman
Though grandmothers so often are
Pale daguerreotype vixens staring at the man
(It’s always a man)
Caught spiriting away their souls
The devil’s in innovation inspiration inhalation --

Was it a violet gasp or ancient sigh
The morning she realized
I wonder: How long did she remain
(Willfully) ignorant
Or how long did she curse the bun
The devil maims independence intoxication inhibition --

She wasn’t a happy woman,
My mother whispers to me: White River Junction,
For a society baccalaureate from Smith?
(She held me, once, as a baby)
Smokey, whiskey breath in a chest full of journals
The devil’s incantations inscriptions exaltations.