Poetry By Susan Vespoli

          Andrew Seaman CC



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Letter to My Son’s Too Short Life

Dear broken lifeline in a handprint pressed 
into the clay when you were six. Dear picky eater, 
apple juice in a sippy cup. Teddy bear tag worn thin 
by fingers fondling the silk. Dear early talker, messy 
room with a TV flickering in the corner so you could sleep. 

Dear crying while fishing with your dad, thinking you were 
going to keep the trout as a pet, flat dead glassy-eyed corpse 
pulled from the lake. Dear brilliant square peg in a round hole, 
rescuer of a pigeon you named Parchesi, low slung jeans 
and boxer shorts, fear of driving, lost books and papers crumpled

at the bottom of your backpack. Dear culinary school, clove of garlic baked 
in a potato, vanilla frosted triple-layer cake topped with strawberries cut
into rosebuds. Dear red eyes and munchies. Backpain and an oxy prescription. 
Finding your own brand of recovery on the street. Gifting water bottles, prayers.
Bible in a Ziplock. Dear street minister, methadone clinic, policeman’s gun.

Dear short life. Dear grief. Flickering sequin at the end of a cigarette, 
tip of a joint. Ignited into fire when held in your lips, drawn into your lungs 

with your breath,                released.


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​Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, AZ, where she believes in the power of poetry to heal. Her work has been published in spots such as Anti-Heroin Chic, Rattle, and New Verse News. She is the author of two books, one of them, Blame It on the Serpent, is about addiction in her family, and all profits are donated to 12-Step Groups. 
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