Claire Wahmanholm • Personal Ruin

Dear blahs,
                dear hangdog, homely glumness,
dear vinegar chagrin,
                I knew I’d find you here,
where you’ve always been.
                May I sit? I begin,
then sit, sip gin and ginger ale,
                play with my napkin, rip it to snippets.

Dear bad blood,
                bad news, bad ends and bad eggs,
how many feet can we fit
                in our mouths? Let’s all choose poorly,
get drunk and surly,
                hurl on someone’s shoes,
leave the party early.

Dear ruin,
                dear Eris-eyed gal,
dear horrible hostess,
                lob that baleful apple my way,
swing a ring of gasoline around my bed,
                sling me a million
pinless grenades, fix me in your headlights.
                Gun it. If you call me,
I’ll come running.