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