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      October 3, 2016Reflection #6,189Robert Nazarene

      Married in America

      I’m having mixed emotions. Like the night
      my ex-mother-in-law loopdy-
      looped off a cliff
      —in my new car,
      a waste of a perfectly good Volvo.
      Volvos seat six. Plenty of room
      for the rest of her Coal-Age
      brood—aggressive little pinheads
      perched in their La-Z-Boys,
      grimy as the dirty dishes, the dogs’ bowls,
      the cat boxes—piled high
      in the kitchen stink.
      My ex-mother-in-law. The Orbicular.
      God rest her sow. She ate
      pickled pigs’-feet & drank Miller’s High-Life
      beer. For a living. And my ex-wife:
      we were a match made in Gehenna,
      living proof of God’s infinite loving-
      kindness—making just two people
      miserable, instead of four.
      If I sound bitter—
      it’s because you are. Step aside.
      I can’t fucking see myself in the mirror.

      from #52 - Summer 2016

      Robert Nazarene

      “I wrote my first poem at age 50. I’ve never been to a poetry class. I prefer to be a pseudo-intellectual rather than a garden variety intellectual. All the props and none of the heavy lifting. My family is, naturally, ashamed. But I haven’t had to drink over it. Yet.”

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