Boxes in the Attic

Hundreds of Superman comic books,
clothing from her teens, old shoes
with holes and broken heels, a black silk
wedding gown from her grandmother,

newspapers from the forties and fifties
when she was the belle of the art world,
a pair of ladies high top shoes with no laces,
a Gil Hodges baseball card, he was hot,

Forty-fives of the Beatles and the Stones.
They were hot too. I danced naked
for John and George. Mick and I
danced naked together.

One cuff link from a lover she can’t remember,
lingerie from Victoria’s Secret, gifts from other
forgotten lovers, price tags still attached.
I hated wearing underwear

Twelve videotapes of herself in a coffin
without a stitch on, her fifty-sixth birthday,
deflated breasts, wispy pubic hair,
squirming underneath twenty-three men

she says found her desirable
Performance art, it was a hell of a show,
the mayor of New York stayed four hours.

She’s unashamed, unrepentant, my mother.

The coffin is there in the attic with the other boxes,
all twenty-three lovers locked inside.
Bury me with them, she cackles,
humping in the grave, that could be a new art form.

Jack Mc Guane

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One thought on “Boxes in the Attic

  1. ke says:

    sounds like it runs in the family

    great poem

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