Kennedys
He has three years to live yet
But the young prince is already dead,
Though he hides this fact with aplomb.
The princess his wife stands
On the dais, thinking of poems
She’ll gather together
Through the long New York afternoons
Of her widowhood like skull
Fragments to make something
Broken whole again.
Beside her, the other prince,
Her brother-in-law, is also
Already dead, already suffering
From a subtle fear of kitchens.
Their wounds, well hidden
In their boyish hair, dyed blonde
From sailing off Hyannis Port,
Have ceased bleeding.
They’re only a little sore now.
The young prince touches his
From time to time out of nervousness
As he makes his way through
This crowd of drunken Poles
Packed into a banquet hall
In a hotel in Milwaukee
To celebrate his victory
Over Humphrey in the primary,
Moving slowly
Towards his beaming wife
And dead brother,
Wincing and shaking hands.