By Denise Duhamel

When my grandnephew Max gave me a Starburst
from his stash, I took it because of the pleasure
he had in sharing. Once I heard his grampa’s voice
come out of his mouth—It is what it is—when his Jenga tower
collapsed. I called him my Little Nietzsche and he laughed.
I don’t like Starbursts but I love Max. He’d given me
a lemon square of candy and said Let’s write a poem
about video games about which I know so little
and he knows so much—things like the prisoner’s dilemma.
This makes me think of Michael Burkard’s Entire Dilemma
which I treasure. The poems center on his sobriety
and I remember how, when I first met him, he clutched
the Big Book in a poetry workshop where I was his student.
I’m on a plane sitting next to a woman who reeks of gin. I helped her
shove her carry-on in the overhead so she think we’re friends.
I only assisted because she was swaying and I was afraid
her bag would topple and hit me in the noggin.
She is telling me about her life with her husband
and his mother (whom she can’t stand) which is why she moved
to the back, to an empty middle seat, and wound up near me.
She is wound up and I would like to wind down.
She explains her husband is a momma’s boy,
that he and his mom are two peas in a pod while she is a lone pea
rolled under the table. She offers me a stick of Juicy Fruit
which I decline because I don’t love her
the way I love Max. I tell her I have to work
but I am really writing a draft of this poem in my notebook
(which is my work, but I don’t want to explain).
She starts to snore but not for long. She wakes up
with a start, just in time to order a Rum and Coke.
I’m going to a divorce lawyer, she says, as soon as we land.
I am sober like Michael was. He’s gone now
as are so many of my mentors. Wait! Is that a poem?
she asks, noticing my lines don’t go all the way to the end
of the page. I tell her I’m coming back from a writing conference
and she says I hope you learned some good tips. I don’t want to
tell her I spoke at the conference. I don’t want to
tell her anything at all. But suddenly she is talking
about her husband again, who will soon be her ex-
if she has her way. I sip on my seltzer and try to go back
to my notebook, where I can be more generous to her
than I can sitting next to her slurring. She too once wrote poems
before her life went to shit. Now she’s a nurse
and hates it. She wants me to know this won’t be her first divorce.
Who might have she become if she had stopped drinking?
Who might I have become if I was still ordering vodka tonics?
I wish I knew more about the prisoner’s dilemma—
I am a prisoner here, even as I turn my head and try to
write. I love that Max doesn’t know who Nietzsche is
but was happy to laugh at his name, which
I have to admit has a comic sound. At one point I say
I need to close my eyes and that makes her go quiet
though her head is lolling and slouching toward my shoulder.
Soon I’ll be home where I can sleep like a starfish,
my limbs sprawling towards the corners of my bed.
I wonder how marketers came up with the name
Starburst for candy—a kind of synesthesia
perhaps? Light in the galaxy of our mouths?
And I’m thinking now of Mars candy bars
and the way little kids like Max love planets and space.
We never finished our video game poem
because Max was happier in his Meta Quest alternate reality
headset where I watched him fight demons I couldn’t see
in his living room. He wanted me there, just as a witness,
and I was happy to sit still observing him, imagining
what was on his screen. I scooted out first, as I was on the aisle,
then saw my seatmate again at baggage claim
standing with her husband, his mother
reprimanding her about something, maybe her drinking.
Then a kind, young man with a lemony beard pulled
my suitcase with its orange “heavy” tag from the belt.

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Denise Duhamel’s most recent books of poetry are Pink Lady (Pitt Poetry Series, 2025), Second Story (2021), and Scald (2017). Blowout (2013) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle award. Duhamel is a distinguished university professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami.