Sorority Sister Susie
Whitney Johnson
A text message from a sister informed me that
The heavy hand which use to hold
Your mother’s finger
Has fallen limp. After this, I was told
Who strangled it: you,
With quick slurps,
Cupped the foam on top to
Soak into your red streams.
You dumb shit, Susie.
I guess, at , the cells
Were on their last plea
And on their list a few
Last check marks—silent strokes
Swing like a jeweled pendulum
Across your belly button as you laugh.
Sometimes I think I get it, Susie:
Your fuckometer paces in
Anticipation, your entire lively
Corpse, actually, numb, an orgasm
Dismembering from a high. You
Choked, in the smoke filled room,
Fanaticizing a night of neon dreams…
But that final sip,
Susie: an irreplaceable savor.
The professor of the health department
Still teaches daily, waving slightly
To the text book of mishaps.
Then church bell rings
At , every time, Susie,
Every time. There is the sweet feel
Of wind whipping around the steeple
From ground to sky; there’s needful
Bees pollinating withered blooms;
There’s grumbling—even when it coughs;
Skittle-sized infections, blue lungs;
And kingdoms, much like yours, Susie,
Of superficial societies, but kingdoms…
You must have craved to be ruler of the kingdom,
Or else they convinced you.
And now, you sink into your infected stream
Beneath the wheat fields. The cows, perhaps,
Fertilizing the golden wheat that floats
Down your stream.
Susie, you dumb shit.
Whatever, whoever,
Must still love you.
