Half-mad on dehydration and grief,
I wake up to, Your grandmother is dead.
Shut off all electronic devices.
Sarah Paturick, icon of 1922, is dead.
There will be no more right or wrong. Say good-bye
to the top cop of beauty, heterosexuality, and movin’ on.
No more food reviews of the best-dipped ice cream
or the freshness of the fish at Café Belud.
No more crazy support of deep wants. No more
Yes, go ahead on the other end of the cell phone.
Good-bye beauty. Good-bye possibility.
You can’t wait for us in the lobby at 188 E. 64th Street
while we compose lines of poems, sketch out new scenes,
arriving eight minutes late with skin you say needs to be exfoliated.
Good-bye, grandma of lipstick-colored bright shades of red-
and-green eyeliner from the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s.
Even in your casket, a beauty of Egyptian proportions.
Good-bye heiress of your own New York City.
Go into the ground with your pearls and your flowers.
We will throw handfuls of dirt on your coffin.
We will count our party, provide enough food.
