Kari Gunter-Seymour: That Spot where Raccoon Creek Meets Brush Fork
I wish I could say
I lay your body under the honeysuckle
the day you crossed over, let vine and wisp
hang nectar all around you.
Kari Gunter-Seymour: Heartland Hospice
When I was a kid, sick, he’d sing Hank William’s
Hey Good Lookin,’ call me his best girl.
Majid Naficy: The Engraver
You put on your eyeglasses
And read me your daughter’s will
Word by word.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Then, you stop
Then, you stop weeping. Lift your face from your hands.
James Crews: Tomatoes
He came back grinning, gripping
a bag of homegrown Beefsteaks so fat
they were already bursting their juices
through the brown paper
Rachel Hadas: Fingernails
Vanessa Redgrave thought whatever
separates life and death
is tiny as the sliver of a fingernail.
Leslie Anne Mcilroy: Wake Up Love
Love sleeps nude and unashamed,
a glass of water near to quell the fires
we mistake for love, a blanket to wrap
the broken who come to her bed alone.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Clouds Heave
His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Some evenings
Some evenings, he would hide his face in his hands
for a few seconds —
Kathleen O’Toole: First Street Shiva for RBG
Think of all the prayers rising
today with daughters and granddaughters held up
to see her uplifted catafalque, its red, white and blue
against the white marble
Deborah Bogen: Sisters
I’m the last sister standing — but tonight I mean to lie down, to practice being in the box
Kathleen O’Toole: On Grief, in a time of pandemic
What I’m learning about grief is that
it comes and goes, like the shadow in front of me
on the afternoon sidewalk.
Denise Levertov: Clouds
as if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling
Valerie Bacharach: Gratitude Journal
I was sure that I had failed my mother, unable to keep her in her home, as I had once promised.
