Poems by J.R. Solonche

OLD

I am old, I know.
I do not need to be told,
but tell me anyway,
for I want to hear you say,
“Solonche, look at that deep brow, 
Solonche, look at that gray
hair and that back bowed
under those seventy-six
years.” I want to hear you say,
“Solonche, you’re all done with sex.”
I want to hear you say,
“Solonche, don’t worry, 
you’ll soon be done being old.
Solonche, you’ll soon enough be cold.”
I am old. Humor me.

CONFESSION

When I was a teenager,
I envied my Catholic
friends, Mike McTeague
and Anthony Grazzioli,
who went to church every 
week to be absolved of
their sins while I, the Jew,
had to hold all my sins in
for a whole year until
the Day of Atonement.
I once asked Mike what
sins he went to confession
to confess. He didn’t say.
I once asked Anthony what
sins he went to confession
to confess. He didn’t say.
But I knew what they were,
at least what one of them
was. It was the same as mine. 
But mine was the only one,
and after a year, masturbation
wasn’t a sin anymore, so why
on earth did I envy them when
Mike and Anthony should
have envied me? Maybe they 
did envy me. I never asked.

MY FUNERAL                                                               

At my funeral, I want no words spoken. I want no words whispered 
at my funeral. At my funeral, I want silence, total and complete and 
long-lasting. I want a dumb-show at my funeral. At my funeral, 
I want all in attendance to contemplate their own deaths. I want all 
in attendance at my funeral to sign a paper that they will contemplate 
nothing but their own deaths. At my funeral, I want no rabbi officiating.
At my funeral, I want all in attendance to sign a paper that they will 
contemplate the meaning of regret for three hours. I want no music played, 
no elegy read at my funeral. I want all in attendance to sign a paper
that they will contemplate the meaning of the failure of the imagination.
At my funeral, I want no flowers except blue cornflowers, the flowers 
of the imagination. At my funeral, I want all in attendance to sign a paper
that they will stare for one hour at the moon, or if there is no moon at my 
funeral, sign a paper that they will stare for one hour at the blackness 
where it would be if there were a moon to stare at. At my funeral, I want 
no ironies, no ambiguities, no weather. I want my funeral literal.