1 Poem by Beaver West

TOLD THEM I'LL BRING YOU WHEN MY DOG ISN'T SICK ANYMORE
 
Dearest Candy Boy,
 
Grandpa's on the machines
again. Jamaican orderly
stealing his meds, slapping him
around at night, according
to him. Also, there are ghosts.
 
Met you at the mall.
You liked me, I knew,
pretty quick. No one
likes Orange Julius
that much.
 
You told me when
it gets this bad
with the shit with the this and that,
the family,
to "reach out," so consider
this that.
 
Attached, please find
the recipe for the Orange
Julius. They swore me
to secrecy, but it's been
fifteen years since
that assistant manager
tried to finger me
by my car. So fuck 'em.
The seven herbs and spices
from my brief stint
at The Colonial,
I'll take with me
to my grave.
 
Mom and Dad
ask about you.
Say: bring her
to Thanksgiving.
 
Still think about
how we left it
sometimes.
 
Your dad still
texts me, says
he's worried, thinks
you're back on it
and had to put
your mom in the bun,
and do I have any
worn panties for sale?
 
Roscoe is senile,
has chronic pink eye,
chases his tail like
it's the ghost of my grandpa
who always kicked him.
 
Maybe you can be
my date to the funeral,
once he goes. Grandpa
or the dog. I never
thought I actually loved you
back, but I think about you
every day.
 
One can OJ concentrate,
8 oz. whole milk,
three squirts corn syrup,
blend to a froth.
​
 
 

 
 
 

Beaver West is a writer from Waterbury, CT. Their work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in New World Writing, Angel Rust, and B O D Y.