Valerie Bacharach: Venice
My husband and I sit in Piazza San Marco, sip overpriced coffee
in morning sun, and at home my friend loses pieces
of herself each hour
Valerie Bacharach: Crows
Some days I don’t know what to do with this rage I carry.
Valerie Bacharach: Chaos
There is no word for parents who have lost a child. Our language is chaotic. We are not widowed or orphaned. We are without, we are incomplete.
Valerie Bacharach: Night, Descending
Night explodes in fractures of shining glass.
Sidewalks hold storefront fragments,
deadly crystals glitter,
almost beautiful with still-red blood.
Valerie Bacharach: Passover
I lay a Haggadah by a chair,
unoccupied.
Unearth my Seder plate,
place upon it shank bone, egg, parsley,
bitter herbs. My bitter tears.
Valerie Bacharach: The Synagogue
Someone enters the sanctuary, picks up the chair
thrown by the Rabbi,
places it gently with the others, a straight row
waiting for bodies.
Valerie Bacharach: Elegy for Nathan
An addict is an actor, able to look you in the eye, smile, and lie so convincingly that you begin to question yourself.
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.
