Last night our friends
came by for dinner—
we hadn’t seen each other
for over ten years.

We cooked a feast,
filled counters and table
with grapes and cheese,
fruit pies and chocolate cake,
bread, tureens of soup,
rice, potatoes, vegetables,
bottles of wine and cold drinks.

All of us so full,
we could barely push ourselves
away from the table,
telling stories of the past—
family histories and legends
about growing up in the Bronx
under the shadow 
of the 3rd Avenue El,
not far from the cottage 
where Poe lived 
with his mother-in-law
and wife (and first cousin) Virginia
who coughed up blood
while playing the piano,
then died a few years later.

Poe stayed up nights, 
language stalled,
while he waited for the dead
to rise like yeast,
stuck in limbo or disbelief,
cursing his fate:
all the women in his life
dying from TB.

Hoping his next life will be better,
free from disease and memories 
of loss, premature burials,
and the pendulum’s breath—
a life with refrigerators
and iced tea, music,
poetry, and old friends
on the back porch.