I
I follow the dirt path along the edge of the marsh. Pickerel weed grows in abundance in the
shallow water. Its showy purple flowers attract damselflies – the insects we called “dining
needles” as kids. Nature can be cruel, though. Each flower lasts only a day. Hemingway was 10
years younger than I am now when he blew his brains out with his favorite double-barreled
shotgun.
II
Killing is prohibited by the Sixth Commandment. A shame dying isn’t, too. Basquiat was 27, his
face covered in oozing sores, when he OD’d. You’re wondering whether it was an accident or
suicide. Look for yourself. He punched a hole in the bathroom window. Beside it, he scratched
the words “Broken Heart.”
III
I had a rare and aggressive form of cancer. The nerves damaged during radiation are a frequent
torment, a frenzied swarm of stinging insects trapped beneath the skin. I manage to cope, but
only by exceeding the maximum recommended daily dosage. And then, ah, the cows roll
delightedly in the grass.
Howie Good’s work has appeared in Bruiser Magazine, Bullshit Lit, and Blood+Honey. He is the author of the poetry collections Akimbo, frowny face, and The Horses Were Beautiful. He serves as an editor at UnLost.