Pris Campbell		My Last Love Poem Breasts, pendulums; butt, a train wreck, I'm searching for some swaggering Lothario to write my last love poem. He must say thou and thee whenever possible, pack it with clichéd love phrases. I won't settle for rambling about the old days, listing bad lovers and good, or describe how many times we did it, to bored cat and dog. There must be a John Alden out there, saving himself just for me. An ad in the paper may work or bottles searched near the sea. Maybe I'll take out a pen and write that sweet poem, myself. I'll pin it to my fridge, carve it into my headstone, so blackbirds can caw and mourning friends sigh she was adored to the end when my body makes love with the worms.		Homewrecker I imagine how it will be, these twenty long years after the last crunch of tires over gravel at my old home, foot reaching out of the car, flame topped hedge to my right, lilies still imitating the sun out back. I picture my father in his garden, tending marigolds to stink away bugs from fresh corn and beans. Mother, in the kitchen, sweats over asparagus casserole, fried chicken, cornbread crisping gold in the oven. My aunt, dressed in her best robe, damaged heart beating faster, listens for the slap of our car door. They're here, she cries. I blink and daydreams mist into warm Carolina air. Strangers inhabit this house now, unaware that they tread in footsteps so casually erased by that whore bastard time.