My cat carries
a dead mouse
up the 14 steps
she can barely
manage, arthritic
as she’s grown
in her old age.
She lays it at
my feet, makes
of death, a gift.
Martha Christina has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of Red Eft Review, and recently in Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Tiny Seed Journal. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.
Tuesday, January 31, 2023
Monday, January 30, 2023
She Brushes Dirt from the Stone by David Mihalyov
A fresh bouquet beside her,
bright colors to offset the gray,
ready for presenting to someone
unable to appreciate the gesture.
I stand nearby at my parent’s grave,
their weathered stone less tidy.
They share a plot, more intimate now
than I remember them in life.
She rises, wiping hands
along the thighs of her jeans
and I see in her wet eyes a grief
more recent than mine.
At my mother’s service, I held
the box which held her ashes.
Unsure of what to do
when the ritual had finished,
I approached a man smoking
by a truck, waiting for us to finish.
He told me to place them by the grave,
said he would take care of it.
How strange to let a stranger
be the last to hold her.
David Mihalyov lives in Webster, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and beagle. His poems and short fiction have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Dunes Review, Free State Review, New Plains Review, and San Pedro River Review. His first collection, A Safe Distance, was published by Main Street Rag Press in 2022.
bright colors to offset the gray,
ready for presenting to someone
unable to appreciate the gesture.
I stand nearby at my parent’s grave,
their weathered stone less tidy.
They share a plot, more intimate now
than I remember them in life.
She rises, wiping hands
along the thighs of her jeans
and I see in her wet eyes a grief
more recent than mine.
At my mother’s service, I held
the box which held her ashes.
Unsure of what to do
when the ritual had finished,
I approached a man smoking
by a truck, waiting for us to finish.
He told me to place them by the grave,
said he would take care of it.
How strange to let a stranger
be the last to hold her.
David Mihalyov lives in Webster, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and beagle. His poems and short fiction have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Dunes Review, Free State Review, New Plains Review, and San Pedro River Review. His first collection, A Safe Distance, was published by Main Street Rag Press in 2022.
Sunday, January 29, 2023
Initiation by David Mihalyov
The older men look on
when I step onto the porch,
their faces flaunting iron stubble
from a weekend of not shaving.
One of them nods at my father,
who either nods back or doesn’t,
either way I’m handed a can of beer,
a baptism of sorts into the fraternity
of those wrestling with the waking hours.
It’s Sunday, wives and girlfriends
inside preparing food
as the men wait for the second half to begin.
Was this who I would become, drinking
my way through marriage, family, work?
I pull the tab and push it into the can,
taking a long swallow as several of the men
watch me. I watch them back, their knuckles
swollen and scarred, from fights
with machines or each other I don’t know.
One of them asks if I was going to the same factory
as them, with my father, and so many of my friends.
And I don’t talk about dreams of getting out.
Another round of beer, and I reach. My father
shakes his head no, as if this glance into
his world was enough, that if I stayed
I would not be able to leave.
David Mihalyov lives in Webster, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and beagle. His poems and short fiction have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Dunes Review, Free State Review, New Plains Review, and San Pedro River Review. His first collection, A Safe Distance, was published by Main Street Rag Press in 2022.
when I step onto the porch,
their faces flaunting iron stubble
from a weekend of not shaving.
One of them nods at my father,
who either nods back or doesn’t,
either way I’m handed a can of beer,
a baptism of sorts into the fraternity
of those wrestling with the waking hours.
It’s Sunday, wives and girlfriends
inside preparing food
as the men wait for the second half to begin.
Was this who I would become, drinking
my way through marriage, family, work?
I pull the tab and push it into the can,
taking a long swallow as several of the men
watch me. I watch them back, their knuckles
swollen and scarred, from fights
with machines or each other I don’t know.
One of them asks if I was going to the same factory
as them, with my father, and so many of my friends.
And I don’t talk about dreams of getting out.
Another round of beer, and I reach. My father
shakes his head no, as if this glance into
his world was enough, that if I stayed
I would not be able to leave.
David Mihalyov lives in Webster, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and beagle. His poems and short fiction have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Dunes Review, Free State Review, New Plains Review, and San Pedro River Review. His first collection, A Safe Distance, was published by Main Street Rag Press in 2022.
Friday, January 27, 2023
Revisionist History by Daniel Brennan
There is no black ice hidden
on the road up the mountain;
the corners and bend of a two-lane
passage aren’t slick with a death threat.
Our mother, she’s behind the wheel,
she hasn’t had a drink in years. She blinks
when the crisp edge of dusk recedes
behind the canopy. My brother, nursing
a half-eaten bologna sandwich, me, with
an empty coke can, breathe easy as night
comes forward, sliding into the grooves
our Chevy suburban, the metal and rubber,
creates. My ribcage doesn’t shake, my lungs
don’t expand in a gasp. We make our way
up the hill through the falling starlight
just as other planets burn into view.
That night we don’t miss a beat, we fall asleep
with our heavy childhood limbs, our mother
exhaling, smooth as black ice, when she closes
her book and sends us dreaming.
Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and resident of New York City, whose work focuses on the juxtaposition of human intimacy and the ever-changing climate of our world. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in CP Quarterly, The Garfield Lake Review, ONE ART, Feral, and GLT.
on the road up the mountain;
the corners and bend of a two-lane
passage aren’t slick with a death threat.
Our mother, she’s behind the wheel,
she hasn’t had a drink in years. She blinks
when the crisp edge of dusk recedes
behind the canopy. My brother, nursing
a half-eaten bologna sandwich, me, with
an empty coke can, breathe easy as night
comes forward, sliding into the grooves
our Chevy suburban, the metal and rubber,
creates. My ribcage doesn’t shake, my lungs
don’t expand in a gasp. We make our way
up the hill through the falling starlight
just as other planets burn into view.
That night we don’t miss a beat, we fall asleep
with our heavy childhood limbs, our mother
exhaling, smooth as black ice, when she closes
her book and sends us dreaming.
*
There is no black ice hidden
on the road up the mountain,
the corners and bend of a two-lane
passage aren’t slick with a death threat.
Our mother, she’s behind the wheel,
she hasn’t had a drink in years. She blinks
when the crisp edge of dusk recedes
behind the canopy., My brother, nursing
a half-eaten bologna sandwich, me, with
an empty coke can, breathe easy as night
comes forward, slides into the grooves of
our Chevy suburban, metal and rubber,
creates. My ribcage doesn’t shake, my lungs
don’t expand in a gasp. We make our way
up the hill through the falling starlight
just as other planets burn into view.
That night we don’t miss a beat, we fall asleep
with our heavy childhood limbs, our mother
exhaling smooth as black ice when she closes
her book and sends us dreaming.
Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and resident of New York City, whose work focuses on the juxtaposition of human intimacy and the ever-changing climate of our world. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in CP Quarterly, The Garfield Lake Review, ONE ART, Feral, and GLT.
Monday, January 16, 2023
Slow by Janis Greve
Too shy, too sensitive,
to utter them outright,
words, when they came, seemed to flutter
from your eyelashes,
weighed first like packets of sand,
then paced slowly,
deliberately,
one word
in front of the other,
keeping us in rapt suspense
as you rounded the curves of a blue-eyed yarn,
beer bottle in hand.
This, too, was the way you moved,
stork-like, unhurried,
one leg lifting,
settling,
taking measure of the ground,
before the other followed suit—
the patient progress of a lanky man.
Oh, how it sunk in,
the deep, contagious tremor of your laughter
spreading out across the couch cushions,
stealing up spines,
until a mountain range of quaking shoulders,
sweet, convulsing release,
as we watched Monty Python downstairs,
all of us taut teenagers then.
I refuse to say that you “committed” anything—
one day you had the gumption
to do what you’d been putting off,
the loneliest task there is,
in the bathroom, the soap that loved you
one last time,
in the crisper drawer,
romaine lettuce and green peppers found fresh.
Janis Greve teaches literature at UMass Amherst, specializing in autobiography, disability, and service-learning. In addition to writing poetry, she makes comics. She has previously published in such places as The Florida Review, New Delta Review, North American Review, and The Berkshire Review, among other places.
to utter them outright,
words, when they came, seemed to flutter
from your eyelashes,
weighed first like packets of sand,
then paced slowly,
deliberately,
one word
in front of the other,
keeping us in rapt suspense
as you rounded the curves of a blue-eyed yarn,
beer bottle in hand.
This, too, was the way you moved,
stork-like, unhurried,
one leg lifting,
settling,
taking measure of the ground,
before the other followed suit—
the patient progress of a lanky man.
Oh, how it sunk in,
the deep, contagious tremor of your laughter
spreading out across the couch cushions,
stealing up spines,
until a mountain range of quaking shoulders,
sweet, convulsing release,
as we watched Monty Python downstairs,
all of us taut teenagers then.
I refuse to say that you “committed” anything—
one day you had the gumption
to do what you’d been putting off,
the loneliest task there is,
in the bathroom, the soap that loved you
one last time,
in the crisper drawer,
romaine lettuce and green peppers found fresh.
Janis Greve teaches literature at UMass Amherst, specializing in autobiography, disability, and service-learning. In addition to writing poetry, she makes comics. She has previously published in such places as The Florida Review, New Delta Review, North American Review, and The Berkshire Review, among other places.
Sunday, January 15, 2023
Crosswords by Richard Weaver
Each morning he’d walk to town
as my grandparents called it,
barely two blocks, stopping to say Hello
to the many merchants, neighbors, relatives,
and friends. Somedays we woke early enough
to walk with him, to be shown in town
as Tom's boys from Texas. We'd walk
behind his measured limp, one knee stiff,
a storied football memory. He always bought
two papers: the Birmingham News
and the Tuscaloosa News,
and read them without glasses
before settling in on the porch
with the puzzles. No one dared
attempt them before him. And he never
left them unfinished. No pencil for him.
Always the confidence of ink.
Only its permanence would do.
Nothing to do with dementia.
The brain is a muscle; he challenged it
daily to do its best, to do more.
Not a way to strengthen memory
or learn new tricks at an advanced age:
it was simply what he did, the way
today began after the sun appeared.
He’d learned the tricks, the odd words
and language quirks, and found ease
in knowing his life had not been left behind,
in a suitcase or attic; his mind alive even though
the anvil of his body was daily shrinking.
Post-Covid, Richard Weaver has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. Among his other pubs: conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, and New Orleans Review. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). Recently, his 180th prose poem was published. He was a finalist in the 2019 Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry.
as my grandparents called it,
barely two blocks, stopping to say Hello
to the many merchants, neighbors, relatives,
and friends. Somedays we woke early enough
to walk with him, to be shown in town
as Tom's boys from Texas. We'd walk
behind his measured limp, one knee stiff,
a storied football memory. He always bought
two papers: the Birmingham News
and the Tuscaloosa News,
and read them without glasses
before settling in on the porch
with the puzzles. No one dared
attempt them before him. And he never
left them unfinished. No pencil for him.
Always the confidence of ink.
Only its permanence would do.
Nothing to do with dementia.
The brain is a muscle; he challenged it
daily to do its best, to do more.
Not a way to strengthen memory
or learn new tricks at an advanced age:
it was simply what he did, the way
today began after the sun appeared.
He’d learned the tricks, the odd words
and language quirks, and found ease
in knowing his life had not been left behind,
in a suitcase or attic; his mind alive even though
the anvil of his body was daily shrinking.
Post-Covid, Richard Weaver has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. Among his other pubs: conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, and New Orleans Review. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). Recently, his 180th prose poem was published. He was a finalist in the 2019 Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry.
Saturday, January 14, 2023
Cleaning the Bones by Richard Weaver
I've never seen anyone eat fried chicken
the way my grandfather did. As thoroughly.
It amazed me that any bones survived.
All that remained after dinner,
(lunch to my grandparents
since dinner was supper)
was a small, neatly stacked pile,
picked clean, never enough left
for an anthropologist to reconstruct
even a mythic bird. No skin.
No gristle. The marrow sucked free.
Though I still try I can never clean the bones
as he did. Gristle, bone, marrow and all,
it disappeared easily into a man who had once
with his brothers’ help, taken apart
a neighbor's wagon as a prank
and reassembled it thirty feet up
in a tree; a man who never shrank
in my eyes even as age outran him.
At 60 he'd once raced a cousin
forty years younger, and sprinted
past him. I admired his strength,
the hand that always shook yours
in a test of sinew and bone,
always stronger even at 90,
sure of its grip and firm with life.
That hand extends itself to me tonight
as I remember what his life taught:
love needs no form to express itself.
Even the small pile of bones
left on a plate wiped clean
with a last slice of bread
were a testimony to his life.
An offering I now know as part of me.
Post-Covid, Richard Weaver has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. Among his other pubs: conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, and New Orleans Review. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). Recently, his 180th prose poem was published. He was a finalist in the 2019 Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry.
the way my grandfather did. As thoroughly.
It amazed me that any bones survived.
All that remained after dinner,
(lunch to my grandparents
since dinner was supper)
was a small, neatly stacked pile,
picked clean, never enough left
for an anthropologist to reconstruct
even a mythic bird. No skin.
No gristle. The marrow sucked free.
Though I still try I can never clean the bones
as he did. Gristle, bone, marrow and all,
it disappeared easily into a man who had once
with his brothers’ help, taken apart
a neighbor's wagon as a prank
and reassembled it thirty feet up
in a tree; a man who never shrank
in my eyes even as age outran him.
At 60 he'd once raced a cousin
forty years younger, and sprinted
past him. I admired his strength,
the hand that always shook yours
in a test of sinew and bone,
always stronger even at 90,
sure of its grip and firm with life.
That hand extends itself to me tonight
as I remember what his life taught:
love needs no form to express itself.
Even the small pile of bones
left on a plate wiped clean
with a last slice of bread
were a testimony to his life.
An offering I now know as part of me.
Post-Covid, Richard Weaver has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. Among his other pubs: conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, and New Orleans Review. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). Recently, his 180th prose poem was published. He was a finalist in the 2019 Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry.
Friday, January 13, 2023
Only a Bed of Water Now by Margaret Duda
Undulating ocean waves
come splashing to shore,
bringing shells, stones,
multi-colored sea glass.
They both had to cross it,
my father in steerage,
my mother in second class,
to meet and make a new life.
Married, they lived near it
and I still say I heard waves
crashing as I was pushed
through the narrow canal.
Many years later, we approach
the time to spread ashes on the bed
of water my parents had to cross
so that waves can rock me to sleep.
Margaret Duda is the daughter of Hungarian immigrants and a Pushcart Prize nominee. She has had poems, short stories, articles, and books published. A book of poetry entitled I Come from Immigrants will be published by Kelsay Books in 2023
come splashing to shore,
bringing shells, stones,
multi-colored sea glass.
They both had to cross it,
my father in steerage,
my mother in second class,
to meet and make a new life.
Married, they lived near it
and I still say I heard waves
crashing as I was pushed
through the narrow canal.
Many years later, we approach
the time to spread ashes on the bed
of water my parents had to cross
so that waves can rock me to sleep.
Margaret Duda is the daughter of Hungarian immigrants and a Pushcart Prize nominee. She has had poems, short stories, articles, and books published. A book of poetry entitled I Come from Immigrants will be published by Kelsay Books in 2023
Monday, January 9, 2023
Video Tapes by Miriam Manglani
I found them in a dusty bag in my mother’s attic,
buried under old board games.
Video tapes so unassuming
in their black plastic cases
one would never suspect they had captured
precious pieces of the past—
my father’s final words to his children,
staring into the camera with his shiny soulful eyes.
I watched the footage wishing
I could pull him from the screen into my world.
Another preserved my mom’s pre-stroke voice,
the one I couldn’t summon in my head
when I needed to hear it because I missed her,
looked for in old voice mails.
I listened now, drinking it in like a potion
to conjure up the mom I once knew.
I watch her giving a tour of our house
with its spacious bedrooms and yard
right before she sold it because dad got sick.
The beautiful woman with perfectly applied
makeup and wide smile preserved like a fine artifact —
had no idea her daughter would be watching and listening
decades later to her footsteps as she walked
in heels on our old house's wood floors,
to the words she spoke in her old voice,
wishing she was still here just the way she was.
Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. Her poems have been published in various magazines and journals, including Sparks of Calliope, Canyon Voices, Rushing Thru the Dark, and Paterson Literary Review. Her poetry chapbook, Ordinary Wonders, was published by Prolific Press.
buried under old board games.
Video tapes so unassuming
in their black plastic cases
one would never suspect they had captured
precious pieces of the past—
my father’s final words to his children,
staring into the camera with his shiny soulful eyes.
I watched the footage wishing
I could pull him from the screen into my world.
Another preserved my mom’s pre-stroke voice,
the one I couldn’t summon in my head
when I needed to hear it because I missed her,
looked for in old voice mails.
I listened now, drinking it in like a potion
to conjure up the mom I once knew.
I watch her giving a tour of our house
with its spacious bedrooms and yard
right before she sold it because dad got sick.
The beautiful woman with perfectly applied
makeup and wide smile preserved like a fine artifact —
had no idea her daughter would be watching and listening
decades later to her footsteps as she walked
in heels on our old house's wood floors,
to the words she spoke in her old voice,
wishing she was still here just the way she was.
Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. Her poems have been published in various magazines and journals, including Sparks of Calliope, Canyon Voices, Rushing Thru the Dark, and Paterson Literary Review. Her poetry chapbook, Ordinary Wonders, was published by Prolific Press.
Sunday, January 8, 2023
Pell-Mell by Margaret McGowan
Nature is disorganized
If left alone
The grass an unruly
Mop, sparrows flit
From tree to tree
Squirrels wreak havoc
In our backyard, don’t pay
Attention to our hints
Or body language
All I want is for them
To leave the apples alone
Let us eat them for a change
Margaret McGowan is the author of Ancestors and Other Poems (2021). She was a finalist in the 2022 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and received an honorable mention in the 2019 HVWG Poetry Contest. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in QU, Hobart, MoonPark Review, and others.
If left alone
The grass an unruly
Mop, sparrows flit
From tree to tree
Squirrels wreak havoc
In our backyard, don’t pay
Attention to our hints
Or body language
All I want is for them
To leave the apples alone
Let us eat them for a change
Margaret McGowan is the author of Ancestors and Other Poems (2021). She was a finalist in the 2022 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and received an honorable mention in the 2019 HVWG Poetry Contest. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in QU, Hobart, MoonPark Review, and others.
Saturday, January 7, 2023
When I Was a Waitress by Margaret McGowan
all those cups
of coffee and miniature
creamers, maybe five,
would fit in a monkey
dish, the sandpipers
outside dancing
on the sunny beach,
I had no time to watch
them, my order
was up, I knew
because my
morse code of dings
had just spilled out
of the speakers
that usually played
fifties pop music
Margaret McGowan is the author of Ancestors and Other Poems (2021). She was a finalist in the 2022 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and received an honorable mention in the 2019 HVWG Poetry Contest. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in QU, Hobart, MoonPark Review, and others.
of coffee and miniature
creamers, maybe five,
would fit in a monkey
dish, the sandpipers
outside dancing
on the sunny beach,
I had no time to watch
them, my order
was up, I knew
because my
morse code of dings
had just spilled out
of the speakers
that usually played
fifties pop music
Margaret McGowan is the author of Ancestors and Other Poems (2021). She was a finalist in the 2022 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and received an honorable mention in the 2019 HVWG Poetry Contest. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in QU, Hobart, MoonPark Review, and others.
Friday, January 6, 2023
February by Margaret McGowan
Thoughts of standing
in the wind, my hair
like a peacock’s feathers
blowing above my head
the wind rumbling
as if it were a 747 taking off
for parts unknown
snow propelling itself into the air
from the black-topped
parking lot, like the bodies
of ghosts rising up from the after
life, angry pine trees
retaliating, their skinny
branches punching wildly,
but with no eyes they can’t tell
if they’re hitting their targets
Margaret McGowan is the author of Ancestors and Other Poems (2021). She was a finalist in the 2022 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and received an honorable mention in the 2019 HVWG Poetry Contest. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in QU, Hobart, MoonPark Review, and others.
in the wind, my hair
like a peacock’s feathers
blowing above my head
the wind rumbling
as if it were a 747 taking off
for parts unknown
snow propelling itself into the air
from the black-topped
parking lot, like the bodies
of ghosts rising up from the after
life, angry pine trees
retaliating, their skinny
branches punching wildly,
but with no eyes they can’t tell
if they’re hitting their targets
Margaret McGowan is the author of Ancestors and Other Poems (2021). She was a finalist in the 2022 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and received an honorable mention in the 2019 HVWG Poetry Contest. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in QU, Hobart, MoonPark Review, and others.
Wednesday, January 4, 2023
Guilt by Rose Mary Boehm
They said, "We are going to meet a friend.
Her family died in a Concentration Camp."
"Are you nuts?" I said. “You want her
to meet me, your German friend?"
"We’ll ask," they said.
They asked. "Yes," she said.
I went.
It was a Sunday in Holland.
It was in the big old hotel.
Huge columns of old marble
that looked like freshly cut meatloaf.
A small, old woman, slightly bent, white hair,
her legs formed an inverted triangle.
She slowly walked towards us, looked at me.
She stretched out her arms, her open hands.
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (Kelsay Books, December 2022) are available on Amazon. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Her family died in a Concentration Camp."
"Are you nuts?" I said. “You want her
to meet me, your German friend?"
"We’ll ask," they said.
They asked. "Yes," she said.
I went.
It was a Sunday in Holland.
It was in the big old hotel.
Huge columns of old marble
that looked like freshly cut meatloaf.
A small, old woman, slightly bent, white hair,
her legs formed an inverted triangle.
She slowly walked towards us, looked at me.
She stretched out her arms, her open hands.
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (Kelsay Books, December 2022) are available on Amazon. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Monday, January 2, 2023
Funeral Planning with Phyllis by Sharon Waller Knutson
The way she crosses
out certain survivors
and puts them under
who preceded her in death
in her obituary,
and replaces names of dead
eulogy and prayer reciters
and hymn organ players
with the living in the program
she types on her Underwood,
we figure she started planning
every detail of her funeral
after she almost bled to death
in her late sixties from surgery
of a gallbladder that gave her grief.
When she dies at ninety-eight
despite insisting she would make
it to a hundred and three
we follow her instructions
with the exception of two.
I don’t want a speaker. They talk
too long and might say something
bad about me, she says. Her best friend
speaks short and sweet and imagines
my mother-in-law smiling.
I don’t want a public viewing.
No one wants to look at an old
lady with wrinkles, she says.
People pack the church to see
what almost a century looks like.
Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist who lives in Arizona. She has published ten poetry books, including My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014), What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say and Trials and Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021), and Survivors, Saints, and Sinners and Kiddos and Mamas Do the Darndest Things (Cyberwit 2022). Her newest book, The Vultures Are Circling (Cyberwit 2023) is forthcoming. She has been published in various journals (most recently in The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, and Silver Birch Press' One Good Memory Series).
out certain survivors
and puts them under
who preceded her in death
in her obituary,
and replaces names of dead
eulogy and prayer reciters
and hymn organ players
with the living in the program
she types on her Underwood,
we figure she started planning
every detail of her funeral
after she almost bled to death
in her late sixties from surgery
of a gallbladder that gave her grief.
When she dies at ninety-eight
despite insisting she would make
it to a hundred and three
we follow her instructions
with the exception of two.
I don’t want a speaker. They talk
too long and might say something
bad about me, she says. Her best friend
speaks short and sweet and imagines
my mother-in-law smiling.
I don’t want a public viewing.
No one wants to look at an old
lady with wrinkles, she says.
People pack the church to see
what almost a century looks like.
Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist who lives in Arizona. She has published ten poetry books, including My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014), What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say and Trials and Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021), and Survivors, Saints, and Sinners and Kiddos and Mamas Do the Darndest Things (Cyberwit 2022). Her newest book, The Vultures Are Circling (Cyberwit 2023) is forthcoming. She has been published in various journals (most recently in The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, and Silver Birch Press' One Good Memory Series).
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