By Alexis Rhone Fancher on October 24, 2019
Alexis Rhone Fancher: Two Poems
ACCUSTOMED TO DEAD KIDs (sung to Lerner & Lowe’s “Accustomed To Her Face” from My Fair Lady.)
1.
I’ve grown accustomed to dead kids,
they almost make the day begin.
I’ve grown accustomed to the latest
locked down campus on TV,
the thoughts, the prayers,
the no one really cares
are second nature to me now,
like breathing out and breathing in.
I’ve grown accustomed to the sound of
gunfire zinging through the air,
the kid who shoots his classmates in his
impotent despair.
I’ve grown accustomed to their screams,
the ending of their dreams,
accustomed to dead kids.
2.
I’ve grown accustomed to the sobs,
of parents frantic as they call.
I’ve grown accustomed to the terror
when their children don’t respond,
the pleas, the cries,
unsaid goodbyes
are second nature to me now,
like breathing out and breathing in.
I’ve grown accustomed to the anguish,
when they learn their child is dead,
hit in the aorta of their heart
or in their head.
I’ve grown accustomed to the thought:
guns matter, kids do not,
accustomed to dead kids.
3.
I’ve grown accustomed to the lies,
the gutless thoughts and hollow prayers.
I’ve grown accustomed to the rants
the NRA and no we can’ts,
the maimed, the dead,
the platitudes instead
are second nature to me now,
like breathing out and breathing in.
I’ve grown accustomed to deceit,
– blame backpacks, Ritalin, or God,
never will the truth be told,
it’s just too goddamn hard.
I’ve grown accustomed to the game,
politicians with no shame,
accustomed to dead kids.
First Published in Glass: Poets Resist March, 2019
From THE DEAD KID POEMS, (KYSO Flash Press, 2019)
*
UNSOLICITED ADVICE TO A FACEBOOK MOM
Stop plastering the site with photos
of your strapping boy on the cliff
of manhood, pitching a no-hitter,
practicing guitar,
don’t publicize his tuxedo’d beauty
posing with his prom date,
or family jaunts to look at colleges for the fall.
Better to shield him from happenstance,
mistaken identity, the evil eye;
protect him from what you won’t imagine:
a drive-by.
a street race.
an overdose.
a dare.
Pass an egg above his body while he’s sleeping.
Make the mano fico over him with your fist.
Sew small mirrors into his clothes to reflect misfortune.
Tie a red string around his wildness.
When someone gives him a compliment, spit over your shoulder three times.
Then touch wood.
Stop flaunting your boy’s shining face,
his sweetness, how he still
lets you kiss him goodnight.
Listen to me:
Like you, I was once besotted.
Don’t tempt the gods.
First published in Literary Mama, January, 2017,
published in Chiron Review, 2017, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2016
From THE DEAD KID POEMS, (KYSO Flash Press, 2019)
Author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Poet/photographer Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry, Rattle, Hobart, Verse Daily, The New York Times, Petrichor, The MacGuffin, Plume, Tinderbox, Diode, Nashville Review, Wide Awake, Poets of Los Angeles, Pirene’s Fountain, Cleaver, Glass, Rust + Moth, Duende, The American Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere. Her books include: How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen & other heart stab poems (Sybaritic Press, 2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (2015), Enter Here, (2017), and The Dead Kid Poems, (2019), and Junkie Wife (Moon Tide Press, 2018), an autobiographical chapbook chronicling Alexis’s first, disastrous marriage. She’s been published in over 60 anthologies, including the best-selling Nasty Women Poets (Lost Horse Press, 2017), Terrapin Books’ A Constellation of Kisses, (2019),and Antologia di poesia femminile americana contemporanea, (Edizioni Ensemble, Italia, 2018). Her photographs have been published worldwide, including the covers of Witness, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Heyday, and Pithead Chapel, and a spread in River Styx. A multiple Pushcart Prize, Best Short Fiction, and Best of the Net nominee, Alexis has been poetry editor of Cultural Weekly since late 2012. She and her husband live 20 miles outside of downtown L.A., in a small beach community overlooking the Pacific. They have an extraordinary view.
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