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Orpheus Plays the Bronx When I was ten (no, younger than that), my mother tried to kill herself (without the facts there can’t be faith). One death or another every day, Tanqueray bottles halo the bed and she won’t wake up all weekend. In the myth book’s color illustration, the poet turns around inside the mouth of hell to look at her losing him (because it’s not her fault they had to meet there): so he can keep her somewhere safe, save her place till she comes back. Some say she stepped on an asp, a handful of pills littered the floor with their blues, their red and yellow music. Al Green was on the radio. (You were at school, who’s ever even seen an asp?) It bruised her heel purple and black. So death could get some color to fill out his skin, another bony white boy jealous of her laugh too loud, her That’s my song when Barry White comes on. He’s just got to steal it, he can’t resist a bad pun, never never gonna give her up, or back. The pictures don’t prove anything, but one thing I remember about the myth’s still true: the man can’t live if she does. She survived to die for good. 6 Shepherd PG:Layout 1 12/20/06 5:27 PM Page 6 ...

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