Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch

[fflo.livejournal.com]

(in response to qwpoi's call for revenge poems)

Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch
            for my motorcycle betrayer

God damn it,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man;

you’ve stepped on my shadow once too often,
you’ve been unfaithful to me with other women,
women so cheap and insipid it psychs me out to think I might
ever
be put
in the same category with them;
you’ve left me alone so often that I might as well have been
a homesteader in Alaska
these past years;
and you’ve left me, thrown me out of your life
often enough
that I might as well be a newspaper,
differently discarded each day.
Now you’re gone for good
and I don’t know why
but your leaving actually made me as miserable
as an earthworm with no
earth,
but now I’ve crawled out of the ground where you stomped me
and I gradually stand taller and taller each
day.
I have learned to sing new songs,
and as I sing,
I’m going to dance on your grave
because you are

        dead
        dead
        dead

under the earth with the rest of the shit,
I’m going to plant deadly nightshade
on your grassy mound
and make sure a hemlock tree starts growing there.
Henbane is too good for you,
but I’ll let it grow there for good measure
because we want to dance,
we want to sing,
we want to throw this old man
to the wolves,
but they are too beautiful for him, singing in harmony
with each other.

        So some white wolves and I

will sing on your grave, old man
and dance for the joy of your death.
“Is this an angry statement?”

        “No, it is a statement of joy.”

“Will the sun shine again?”

        “Yes,
        yes,
        yes,”
        because I’m going to dance dance dance

Duncan’s measure, and Pindar’s tune,
Lorca’s cadence, and Creeley’s hum,
Stens’ sirens and Williams’ little Morris dance,
oh, the poets will call the tune,
and I will dance, dance, dance
on your grave, grave, grave,
because you’re a sonofabitch, a sonofabitch,
and you tried to do me in,
but you cant, cant, cant.
You were a liar in a way that only I know:

        You ride a broken motorcycle,
        You speak a dead language
        You are a bad plumber,
        And you write with an inkless pen.


You were mean to me,
and I’ve survived,
God damn you,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man,
I’m going to learn every traditional dance,
every measure,
and dance dance dance on your grave

        one step

for every time
you done me wrong.


-- Diane Wakoski