Archive for the LYNNE SAVITT Category


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on December 14, 2019 by Scot


i still have words & warmth
physical reactions to memories
now when we speak it’s brief
terse sentences ending with
yr need to urinate or take a another
yellow pill it’s hard to swallow
this end of passion so strong
it burned decades through
families & partners & consequences
it wasn’t prison that separated us
or miles or husbands or wives
yr stroke diminished energy to love
me though you speak it every day
on the phone & now my arthritic
body can’t respond i send cards
candy socks love tepid as marriage
i look at the sad saggy cheeked husband
who shares my life here & my own face
time has been kind to me the juice
of our fluid desire kept me young
today my one true love i will wither
like the other old crones where i rent
in a complex on the island my identity
stays wet like the ever-eroding shores
& you locked near the woods attached
to tv like an iv & aides to help you
daily live out yr days dry as sand
i send in an envelope to remind you
of hours at the beach when we smelled
each other’s skin & floated on ocean
of longing to carry us to eternity
i’m not too tired to remember


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot



of two little girls about 8 & 5 years old
wearing matching striped bathing caps
between them stands a man in a dark suit
his eyes so ice blue you can tell even in a
colorless photo his hands on their tiny heads
like a magician pulling them out of a top hat

in late afternoon he draws the shades un
dresses himself one by one he tells the
children to come & nap their bare backs
spooning into him who pinches their arms
shoulders buttocks instructs them to put
their spidery legs between his thighs

decades later after their father’s funeral
sisters remember those times in the four
poster bed on top of the slick quilt with
grandpa never tell anyone & they didn’t
for over 50 years until that rainy night
finishing each others’ sentences identical

memories stunned at exactness of twin
detail flashbulb goes off their own father
never hugged or kissed or touched them
grandpa who always wore a suit & tie even
in hundred degree weather buttoned up
tight except those late summer afternoons

with his two little discreet rabbits
& their secret blue thighs


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot


i cannot remember not loving
you had other lives before me
after me did too but us always
histories shared our lost baby
yr decades in prison my kids
became yours & layers of love
kept us going we cemented
memories like bricks never lost
foundation yr wives my husbands
our lovers still there was us yearning
almost four years since yr stroke
& intimacy has crumbled like house
in hurricane i hear yr voice every
day before yesterday yr chair broke
& grumpy as a toddler with no sleep
you bitched abt it limoncello cake
i sent for yr 71st birthday sits in yr
refrigerator aide wasn’t there when
it arrived & you struggled to get it
in the past we could laugh abt this
can’t get any better me hundreds of
miles away i struggle with family
health limping through the days
calling you at night sometimes
waiting until i know you are asleep
i leave message ‘i love you’ i do yr
pain yr bad foot & left hand that won’t
work the slur in yr speech you are
going to teach a class & meet some
one i hope comfort i can’t give you
find in face arms of caring woman
husband, grandkids, dogs keep me
moving away & LIVING afraid to
say i’m happy i wish for you moments
of joy to savor like we did each other
for decades but now my darling i don’t
want to hear abt bathroom accidents
or endless tv shows or the yankees
list of medications plethora of side
effects me too my love didn’t die
it just got tired


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on August 28, 2018 by Scot


there are three leaks in my bedroom
ceiling as winter keeps us unbalanced
springlike one day alaskan cold the
next like first fourteen year old heart
break you cling to sharp ache of the
boy whose ring you wore round yr
neck caught kissing cheerleader with
long dark ponytail tears like broken
soda fountain poured you bleached
yr hair blonde & never looked back
then on his knees begging for second
chances you’d never fall again pain
kept you safe all the other males vying
for yr yellow head of fluff remember
how good it felt to smash his class
ring with a hammer & throw it into
river of the dripping ceiling reminds
me slow healing makes you strong
enough to break yr heart again & again
each crack cementing grief & joy staining
yr brain like the circles of peeling plaster
i vacuum sad brown carpet waiting for
the roofer who never comes

Sex & Dignity by LYNNE SAVITT

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on January 30, 2018 by Scot


a white hospital blanket covered your feeding
tube yr eyes closed peaceful as a corpse yr
glasses resting on yr flat broken nose pale
as i’ve ever seen you in over forty years loving
you i kissed yr forehead warm & wrinkled smile
came to yr face opening yr eyes “my princess”
you said to my daughter who left the room to
give us privacy “touch my cock,” you asked &
as if we were in the prison visiting room i reached
under the starched sheet searching for yr penis
but I couldn’t find a quarter inch of of the almost
eight i remembered ‘’where is it?’’ i asked ‘’it’s gone’’
‘’under the diaper i’m wearing, ‘’ you answered
SEX AFTER SIXTY was a book i used to shelve
while working at b. dalton’s when i was in my
twenties never looking ahead to the rules it
listed put away yr medications & photos of yr
grandkids no where was a chapter on diapers
or arthritic hands that could freeze in permanent
grip if i tried a hospital hand job to take care
of you need more than i could ever give i’m
remarried now living hundreds of miles
away i am still yr healthcare proxy & to you
still responsible for yr shy cock swaddled
in a paper diaper yearning to be a warrior again

Another Night Without Yr Voice by LYNNE SAVITT

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on January 5, 2018 by Scot


makes the frigid air seem colder
inside i see my breath spiral like yr
cigarette smoke outside the motel
door those humid warm summer
evenings we spent living in air
conditioning ourselves for the
inevitable split apart like shelled
peanuts we ate in bed watching
the yankees lose the attitude my
love how I miss the nightly sweet
sounds of yr longing melts me daily
my fingers running through the coats
of my dogs garner my affections these
days but the nights still after
more than four decades belong to
you got older first by having a stroke
& I came to you too late for motel
rooms & the haze of sex that carried
us for years & years & years oh baby
tonight it can’t be any colder below
zero chance of our bodies working
together again I listen for the ring
bringing yr voice to me, in me warm
as summer motel memories
of an old woman still loving an old man

The Night of The Raspberries by Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on December 18, 2017 by Scot


i’d forgotten about the first snow of the season
how black ice owns my fragile bones
ankle, wrist, ribs
keeping me locked inside against my will
how empty the refrigerator was after
eggplant florentine, cornbread stuffed
turkey breast, broccoli rabe filled
yr stomach all week & all that was left
were my elegant raspberries
reminding me of how, after decades in prison,
you wouldn’t allow me to lock
any of the doors & how always
you yearned for a full refrigerator
not an apple graced my table tonight
today you live snow covered hills
& winding roads hours away
the raspberries aren’t as sweet
& all my doors stay locked now