Random Impulse

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 midnight, 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 noon, 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.