A Mother

I am selfish with him—Behind a locked white door in bed we lie, never leavingThe world wants himWhile I am scrambling for time. Split halfway in two when he emergedMy body stitched together, much of me left pooling on a white tiled floorLabor of the body and of loveBlue lips and knotted cord—Is he breathing?I …

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Lace and Yellow Roses

It has been six months since my grandmother’s passing.  Sometimes things like art grow still inside a grieving heart.  Perhaps I'm ready to write again. Time will tell. She was singing a year ago, Thanksgiving in our kitchen, Which is why I remember it. Now I watch, through the narrow slit of a newly painted …

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Hourglass.

There’s not much literary inspiration in caring for my grandmother.  There is a lot of sadness—a lot of bittersweet hanging like cobwebs from the ceiling.  A lot of soaking up a final moment, and yet still thinking you’ll have many more to come.  But after a few months, we are now down to our last …

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Glass

After they die, I crack a cold, cheap beer and comb through my belongings.  I look for letters, texts, facebook comments and photographs.  Listen to messages to see if maybe, somewhere along line, they’ve left me the gift of their voice. After they die, I scramble desperately for something left of them.  Something tangible.  Something …

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The right amount of sadness

I spend nights alone, in a hotel room.  Sometimes in a cabin in the mountains. The cabin in the mountains, they’ve done up so that it’s covered in deer prints and wolf prints and bear prints and plaid.  Enamel crockery.  Indoor hanging vines.  Big picture window, so I can stand naked and cry before the …

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Patchwork Girl

An aunt of mine makes quilts, for every generation of the family.  When we are young, she shows us ours—the patches for each sibling.  I remember being worried that my brother, newly born, did not have a square.  Worried he had been forgotten in the weaving all together of a family. I watch the grown …

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