Poetry by Susan Vespoli

               ​​​Jennie Robinson Faber CC



Adam Abecedarian

Adam has
become a
               c l o u d
  dances biblical
excerpts
      feet and toes
  going 
       high &   low
in his shoeless    body-less
     jig       as I sit in the
kitchen at 4:00 a.m.
lamenting loss.

My son
      no longer
           on the physical
                  plane.

Quiet here in this 
room where
so many years ago, he carved a 
turkey.             Today

            under
       vast
              watch of the sky,      he is ash   an
  
X.          Axed from life      by a
young bully cop –            three bullets
zipped from gun    to neck     to zero breath.





Adam Duplex

Adam carried his bible in a Ziplock
tucked in his backpack, read it for hope,

believed, hoped,      packed raw oats, nuts,
fruit, a water jug,     believed he could kick methadone,

heal those on the street; kick processed food, quit
cigarettes, quit caffeine, no white flour, sugar,

no more dark clothes, just white tee-shirts,
button-ups, light jeans. Prayed, found a church,

a mega church with a band and a pastor in jeans.
When the band played,       he sang,

raised his hands in the air, and I sang next to him,
felt the energy in him and in the air of the place, like we’d

entered a river, non-church-going-mom-me and him,
zealous Adam with his bible, carried into a flow.

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Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, Arizona. Her work has been published in Rattle, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nasty Women Poets: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse, Mom Egg Review, and others. Her full-length collection about addiction in her family, Blame It on the Serpent, is available from by Finishing Line Press. All proceeds will be donated to addiction support and recovery organizations. https://susanvespoli.com/