BUOY
For Gregory
It sits dinging in rough water
clang CLANG clang CLANG
rocking back and forth like
an autistic automaton,
a guide for deep channels
and shallows that could wreck you.
Funny that you choose it
as your goalpost waiting with open arms
for you to make the final crossing.
Will you reconsider as the wake
from a large boat washes into your lungs?
Will you choke and sputter and stroke
trying to reach what? Safety?
At this point?
Did you bring a gun, as promised,
to do the job right?
Permanently.
No rescues for you, no bungled
hanging on to life intensive care
cartoons. Will you
put it in your mouth?
Will it feel warm and hard
like one last blow job?
How will it feel when you
spatter your brains
like chum, slick and red
across the surface of the sea?
Erasing My Father
I am a captive in amber
every time, suspended
in the moment his voice
surprises me,
his last message in time.
He could sing like an angel,
velvet deep vocals
of indigo blues, purples
and warm dark browns,
a weapon over the phone.
He always had my back
despite his apparent cruelty
of mood and tone,
the fine instrument of his voice
pushing all my buttons.
I always mistook his
admonitions and intensity,
until one day I realized
it was driven by fear and worry,
love as a language out of his control.
I listened once, twice,
how many times
before I had the courage
to let it go, to never hear it
again, and finally press delete.
Bio: Laura A. Ciraolo was born in New York City and has lived and worked there as long as she can remember. She has poems currently in The Cortland Review #49, the New York Quarterly #66, Caper Journal and Poets for Living Waters. Her poems have appeared in Agenda (UK), The Centrifugal Eye, The Long Island Quarterly, Orbis (UK), iota (UK), MiPoesias, and The Comstock Review among others. She was a finalist for the 2010 Bordighera Poetry Prize.