Baby’s First

when you died I thought, “something real
to be sad about.” at the funeral home
I was the only one wearing black. baby’s first
dead body. wearing band merch to the concert.
much ado about glasses you don’t need,
whether to bury you with one last scratch-off
lottery ticket. you shouldn’t go up there
a loser, but you’d come down and kill us
if we trapped a winner with you underground.
everyone laughing. for the first time
I thought of my father as a little boy,
once in the seventies and then
last week shaving your face halfway
for the last time. it’s a good thing
you’ll stay this age forever now,
and us too. he shaves his own face.
he has no use for that room
where they cracked your ribs.
for a minute I watched him folding
your already-folded collar, worried
blue inlay on white coffin looked
a bit too “pimped-out.” 

Apology

I kissed like a crack addict
at fourteen. no hope for me.

he was older. Abercrombie model
with pills in his shoes who smelled
like the perfume department.

hot song in the basement
to deny later. they laughed
when I asked for his number.

but you believe me,
right, baby? I say
“baby” when I’m serious.

he met my best friend
on some fancy trip
for the gifted kids.

my parents were scared,
so I didn’t go.

I learned how to play
when I missed her,
the keys shaven down.
I was kind of in love.

I write about everyone.

in every good story,
somebody stops me.

my body, my mouth.

I wanted to sing
“Red, Red Wine”
to the weird guys
who rode with my uncle.

I know not what I do,
sometimes. a kernel
in this piece-of-shitness
older than you.

I was born to chase after
a red sports car, dressed
like shit, braying, “baby,
it’s not in my nature,
just what I’m always like.”  



Kat Giordano was born in Philadelphia, and it's been downhill ever since. She is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Thumbsucker (Malarkey Books, 2024) and one novel, The Fountain (Thirty West, 2020). Kat is very cool. You love her.

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