My Mother is Not a Crier by Sharon Waller Knutson

and neither am I, so I am not surprised
she is not sobbing when she calls me
and says, I tried to wake your father,
but he was cold and blue. The paramedics
are on their way. Please hurry.

I drive clear across town, expecting to see
my father sitting in his recliner drinking
a cup of hot coffee and I prepare to hand him
his carton of Camels and box of chocolates
he told me to buy him the night before.

We stand frozen as two men wheel a black bag
out of the bedroom. Do you want an autopsy?
a policeman asks my mother. We both stare
speechless. We are two marooned sailors
lost at sea. He thinks we killed daddy, I whisper.

I’m off shift, he says, I’ll be happy to stay.
But we smile and say we are fine. When I return
the cigarettes and candy unopened, the clerk
is confused. My father is dead. My voice cracks
like thin ice on a deep lake where I am skating.



Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist and a widely published poet who lives in a wildlife habitat in Arizona. She has published ten poetry books including: What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say (Kelsay Books 2021,) Survivors, Saints, and Sinners (Cyberwit 2022), and The Vultures are Circling (Cyberwit 2023.) Her poems have appeared most recently in ONE ART, Black Coffee Review, Verse-Virtual, and Your Daily Poem. She is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Review. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/