April 2021
Author's Note: Since Governor Andrew Cuomo seems to have fallen from the man New Yorkers listened
to daily and trusted in the Spring of the Pandemic, to someone on the skids for sexual harassment, or perhaps
just some good old fashioned flirting, I thought I'd give him what may be his last hurrah. The other poem is
about my journey through grief. My second collection of poetry Torohill is forthcoming later this year
from Deerbrook Editions.
Excelsior
Being demure, I've had to endure.
U Tubes, interviews and essays by women
claiming unremitting love for you.
There's even a name for them,
Cuomo-Sexuals, for God's sake.
You need to know that I was first
to save my second cup of coffee
for your daily briefings. How I wait
to see the color of your ties, what lapel
pin you chose and gauge how many days
since you touched up your hair.
And those weekend polos, OMG
those muscular arms. I can feel them
around me as we speak. When I was
twelve I was certain I'd marry Paul
McCartney. Oh, I forgave Linda, but not
that second one who stole his money.
He could have avoided that
had only he met me. That's why I'm not
letting you go. For four years,
I've starved for honest, straight shooting,
factual directives, Andy.
I call you Andy. I'm not looking for
a cheap fling like those other floozies.
I want to marry you! Note: I make a mean,
tomato sauce. We'll pick up Matilda
every Sunday for family dinners
and I'll stop fretting about the meatball
in the White House. We'll ask Tony Fauci
to give me away and Dr. Birx to be
my matron of honor, hail her
a fashion plate for older women.
What do you say, my Captain, my Excelsior?
Great Horned Owls
...fate and metaphysical aid doth seem to have crown'd withal.
~Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Owls awaken in spruces.
One hoots, I'm here,
where are you?
I answer, Please stop
grief's relentless
burrow and gnaw.
He dives, claws
like switchblades
and pierces one regret
after another before
their nightly scuttle
across my attic floor.
You dubbed the owl
outside our bedroom,
Mr. Wildstein.
How you loved nicknames.
For someone who shunned
anything metaphysical,
you were the most psychic
person I've known.
Every one of your short stories
came true. You always knew
death would swoop in on grey wings
and carry you to the highest tree.
©2021 Donna Reis
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