Susan Vespoli

September 19, 2022

“Orange” by Susan VespoliPosted by

Susan Vespoli

ORANGE

I’m the mother of the man 
living at the park off 57th Avenue,
a man who found religion and wants to pray 
 
with those he meets on the street,
those who buy five-dollar hits 
of fentanyl and contemplate suicide
 
like he once did. I’m the mother 
of a man who carries a bag 
of oranges from the 24-hour WinCo, 
 
where he walks to wash his face,
a man who sleeps upright on a cement bench 
beneath a ramada, eyes closed, head 
 
drooped forward. I’m the mother 
of a man I hear breathe in the backseat, 
nodded off next to his backpack
 
and jug of water as I look out 
the windshield at traffic lights, 
pigeons on lampposts, clouds—
 
but he’s not there; he’s back at the park, 
head bowed, peeling an orange 
at a concrete table in the shade.
 

—from Rattle #76, Summer 2022

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Susan Vespoli: “Every homeless person you pass on the street or in the park is someone’s beloved kid. One of them is mine.” (web)

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May 3, 2022

“Twenty Photos from Police Records of His Last Night Alive” by Susan VespoliPosted by

Susan Vespoli

TWENTY PHOTOS FROM POLICE RECORDS OF HIS LAST NIGHT ALIVE

The criminalization of homelessness makes
the struggle to survive on the streets even
more difficult.
—National Coalition for the Homeless

The sadness lands at night,
a heavy bird standing
above your ribs, the weight
of its body dropping
down through its legs
and into your core
making it hard to breathe.

Sadness leans against the interior
of a tunnel along an underpass
you suddenly recognize
as the I-17 at Thunderbird
only a couple miles
from your house:
a black backpack with orange straps
a knit blanket       Big Gulp cups
a cardboard box and a pink plastic crate,
graffiti that has sprayed the cement into a cloud.

Photos 15, 16, & 17       your son’s face,
the 18th       his back,
head hung to chest
in resignation, a hoodie,
wrists clasped in handcuffs,
his left palm and fingers
circling his right thumb
like his hands are comforting each other.

Walk off the sadness. Spot
a hawk perched on your rooftop
AC unit, where a little bird dives and screams
at the hawk who just sits there
like patriarchy, like an American eagle,
possibly the one on a dollar bill
until it squawks once,
then lifts into the air
the small bird in its talons.

—from Poets Respond
May 3, 2022

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Susan Vespoli: “This past week, I received photos and body-cam video from police records of my son Adam’s last night on the planet before he was shot by a police officer. Adam and three other homeless individuals, one in a wheelchair, one leaning on a cane, were charged with a misdemeanor for ‘obstructing streets or public areas.’ Because my son questioned the police’s right to arrest them for sleeping, he was thrown to the ground, charged with ‘resisting arrest’ and hauled into jail for the night. The next day, he was shot. I am writing to give a voice to all the human beings who sleep without homes and who are treated this way.” (web)

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March 7, 2021

“How to Celebrate Your Daughter’s 33rd Birthday When There’s No Going Back” by Susan VespoliPosted by

Susan Vespoli

HOW TO CELEBRATE YOUR DAUGHTER’S 33RD BIRTHDAY WHEN THERE’S NO GOING BACK

Go south and then west to a distant unknown
address. Drive past junk yards, steel shops, stacked
car parts, and a billboard for weed pizza. Breathe.
Remember the last time you saw her, Christmas,
and before that, the car ride between hospital stays.
Bring the cake you baked, the kind she likes: cocoa frosted
yellow square plus cupcakes left at home for her daughter.
Pack the gift bag, pink tissue-papered things she asked for:
track phone, cleansers in a plastic tub, socks. Card you made
from an old photo, your arms circling her little-
girl body, both of you smiling, her grin with perfect
rows of baby teeth, yours in plum lipstick. Park, watch
her walk to your car, barefoot, no pants, long red tee-shirt,
dark hair coiling to her waist. Wave. Say hi, make eye
contact. Hand her envelopes, bags, the tin pan
of golden cake. Hear her say thank you. Follow her
through the front door into a house with no furniture.
Learn the boyfriend you don’t know is upstairs. Ask
if she’s taking care of herself. Listen to the wind howl.
See her eyes dance backward. Worry. Swirling
dust outside the window. Look how she opens
the card, finds a trace of who you two were then
is still here in this empty unfamiliar room. Put your arms
around her, feel her wobble. Say, enjoy your cake! Wonder
if there’s any chance they even have a knife.

—from Poets Respond
March 7, 2021

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Susan Vespoli: “Loving someone with addiction and mental challenges in the time of Covid is a daily humbling.” (web)

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July 23, 2019

“My Son No Longer Missing” by Susan VespoliPosted by

Susan Vespoli

MY SON NO LONGER MISSING

I like to think he graduated
from the methadone clinic,
now does yoga, gave up

smoking. I like to think he grew
a new set of bright teeth
to replace the ones that rotted.

I like to think he rents a studio
with a patio near the canal
filled with crappies and sunfish

not nodding off with homeless junkies.
I like to think he leans back
in an Adirondack, after loading

the dishwasher with cupcake pans
from birthday muffins like the ones
he baked for me topped with candles

that he brought to the Mex place
where he hired a trio of sequined
mariachis to serenade us

as we dined on cheese enchiladas.
I like to think he is waiting
for just the right minute of the right hour

of the right day to reappear

to tell me he is living

free of pills and booze and meth
and smack and at the end
of each long hot Phoenix day,

he drops himself
into the cool blue complex pool,
then emerges shiny, dripping.

—from Poets Respond
July 23, 2019

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Susan Vespoli: “What started as a free-flowing prescription for pain pills for back pain turned into a heroin addiction, and eventually an eraser.” (web)

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