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Every Other Day Was Like That
Read more from this authorby Susan Yount


My prison-bound boyfriend needed work
and I started bleeding. I knew it wasn’t right;
I had already fainted twice—I couldn’t
let anyone know how careless I had been.

When the phone rang— it could not wake me.
When I was late to pick him up, he phoned me
again—and mother came in—waking me.
There was blood all over but she couldn’t see.

When I came to the phone I already knew
I was mostly dead—cold and blue
and gray. I could barely drive.
I sped. I couldn’t tell him—

I never even knew.

We were on our way to see the Flaming Lips.

I could only feel the blood—the gore
gathering—the easy slip into it.

               Death you idiot—Death.

I couldn’t even stand but I went anyway—
hurried to my seat.  My ticket. Death you idiot—death.
The easy slip into it.




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