It Was Late August When Princess Di Crashed and I Tried to Walk on the Ocean by Susanna Stephens

Summers were plops of raspberry ice cream on a driveway
of broken scallop shells, the way the late afternoon sun poured
through lattice work on the Dutch-style windmill, its rays spilling
into a shadow on a mop head of grass, chunks of Orleans lobster
flesh dunked into fatty halcyon, Mom scouring

the flea market for jigsaw puzzles and Wentworth China. It’s the kind
of ease that comes with enough idle time and the way we drop pieces like

the look on my mother’s face when she walked through the door
after a long day of work, pallid save for

rosy blotches once she had her glass of merlot. I was trying to walk
on the ocean, going to that reservoir in my chest where the tears live,
on that late August day, but an egret at the marsh cocked its head
as if to say,

This has nothing to do with Princess Di.
And it was right: I was 14, never paid attention
to royalty let alone wear makeup, but why
so much crying, save for

how does a mother hold all the pieces of herself
and those of her children who wander into the night?



Susanna Stephens, Ph.D. is a psychoanalyst, poet and mother living in Brooklyn, NY. Her work is published or forthcoming in Rust & Moth, ROOM: A Sketchbook for Analytic Action, and DIVISION/Review. In addition to writing, she maintains a private practice in Manhattan.