The Ballad of Angela Folsom

Douglas Folsom died last year
From rage's burning dross.
Before he poured the plummet down,
He raised a final toast:

"Hush, little darling, don't you cry.
Fiddle dum, fiddle dee.
Hush your sweet little angel eyes
And rock yourself to sleep."

Now Boston life pricks like a knife,
Unsheathed in ambulant hands,
Scraping skin in Back Bay alleys
With venom by the Fens.

So Jennifer took Angie north
Where green the mountains may,
But to fashion the poet's words,
Nothing green can stay.

Jennifer Folsom died last month
As a cow jumped over the moon
While somewhere dark on Boylston Street
A man ran away with the spoon.

"Hush, little darling, don't you cry.
Fiddle dum, fiddle dee.
Hush your sweet little angel eyes
And rock yourself to sleep."

Morphine measured Angie's hour
As fading shadows knelt
To whisper prayers not understood

Though felt

Though felt

Though felt.

Angela Folsom died last night
From something in the blood,
Begotten three short years ago,
Now known to only God.

(Angela died from AIDS in Duxbury, Vermont, October 15, 1990 shortly after her mother passed away from the virus.)