Friday, April 8, 2022

April 8.

On the morning of the storm

We drove to the Skagit River in my son's truck
to talk about her wind cut through power
flicked off and on ghosts he said he's always
seen them gathering on the edges of houses
barns old schools places where children
or grandmothers lived the river is constant here
we mourn through it even when we want to be
shut out children aren't supposed to die
the mud banks rear and churn daffodil
fields pulse like giant earthlights even in early
spring when the Pacific tide breaks its bounds
we hold grief like stars hissing in our mouths
the tide has no heart for us the lower angels
sink and rise from the smokestack's painted sides
to the hospital's last call


5 Comments:

Blogger Rebecca said...

i see her when you write this. i didn't even know her, just that photo of her, and what she might have been. this poem scoops the three of you up. somehow.

April 8, 2022 at 1:46 PM  
Blogger Radish King said...

(Rebecca) thank you for the music!!!

April 8, 2022 at 3:44 PM  
Blogger Rebecca said...

it just breaks my heart. and lifts it. what a gift to her daughter.

April 9, 2022 at 7:24 AM  
Blogger Ms. Moon said...

we hold grief like stars hissing in our mouths

Well. Damn.

April 9, 2022 at 11:20 AM  
Blogger Elizabeth said...

I love this post and all these comments, too.

April 10, 2022 at 12:33 AM  

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