O, he was the father of a nation and my own
sweet cheating daddy: president, husband,
die-hard fan of Miss Monroe
and her blown-sky-high skirt.

I was a lady, though first never mattered
to me. I was fashion: fur collar, black
glasses – the classiest girl in the plaza
that bright day in Dallas.

A crinkle of linen, a whip-crack.
A bullet fired will not forgive.
O spacious sky, have you ever seen grace
crawl away on all fours?

Like a lover I skinned my pink knees
on the trunk of his car. Like a mother,
I cuddled the little pink fragments
of bone in my white gloved right hand.