Susan Demarest
Teenage Homicide
"There is a crack, a crack in everything...
That's how the light comes in."
Anthem, Leonard Cohen
I think, that is, I’m sure, I killed
my twin inside the womb—and once again
when he was born, but I don’t discuss
my homicides, that summer night, the dance,
the satin sky, my body pinned against a broken grave,
his hand against my mouth so that
I had to kill again—but I don’t speak
about the past as I’m still here
and he is gone; because this mining
of the past, the thought that this will be the key,
to find the victims that you hid—because you had to
just to live—I know it will not set you free
nor will the light come creeping in,
so I have built a country wall;
it’s ornamental and it’s long.
Letter From Paul
Sundays still are rough, because the quiet
and the stains; your satin sheets are soaking wet;
you must have done something last night but what? Outside,
the finches have come to blows, their morning
solos up for grabs—it seems there are two points of view
—the cranky jay up in the tree is not amused—
but you’ve still got the day
you’ve got your perfect dog to walk
and look: the tail is going now; one smell
after the rain is all she needs to feel alive—and now
the morning choir has started; the jay has flown
into the brush to hear the finches get it right; it’s true,
sometimes, you have to yell—and no regrets—it’s all for art;
and Sunday coffee is the best; you make the eggs and trace
the butter on the bread, I know; too much—
do you remember growing up,
the Sunday funnies gobbled up
the crumb cake falling on the page and then
to church? You didn’t mind because the funnies
and the crumbs, the Reverend Smith, his balding head,
his anger rising through the veins above his robe, the silver
threads stitched on the stole while you sat staring out the window
at the light, the broken graves, the sermon’s drone, another letter sent from Paul
until at last, the final hymn—No, wait—the benediction,
Aaron’s prayer: “The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make
His face to shine upon you, The Lord lift up His countenance
upon you . . . and give you peace” which, now you know
meant, “Child, your house is bloated with regrets,
but you can go; God’s love, et cetera.”
Susan Demarest is an educator and writer who lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts. Her features on antiques and decorative art have appeared in Collectibles Magazine, and her poetry and CNF have appeared in Hawaii Review, Tar River Poetry, Ibbettson Street Press, Tell, Medical Literary Messenger (VCU) and Molecule Tiny Lit Magazines. Her blog is found at trouveres.net.