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They Hold

A tree with white blossoms,
Maybe dogwood or witch-hazel,
Stands stark against the bleak gray cliff
And the soft green of fresh leaves.
Growing horizontally from the ground,
Holding itself against gravity
Roots straining from the weight
Of the sky.

​

But they hold.
 

Teddy Bear

My mom woke me up.

I had been sleeping

while my family gathered

waiting for my grandmother to die.

It had been a week

since she had fallen into a coma,

and we had set up 

a hospital bed

in our living room.

 

We had promised her she would die at home.

 

Earlier that day we circled around 

her unmoving body

and sang hymns.

I’ll fly away,

Oh Glory,

I’ll fly away 

in the morning.

 

She died in the evening

and it was several hours 

before we called the coroner's office.

We sat in the room with her body

and talked about the woman she was

before and after the dementia.

 

When they took her body away

we took the stuffed animals we had

surrounded her while she slept.

The last of her warmth

was in the teddy bear

held to her chest.

Dishes in the Night

When I can’t sleep, I do the dishes.

I stand with the water running 

and scrub the scum 

from the bowels and cups

and listen to podcasts.

I keep it quiet,

a bare murmur in the silence of the night

because my roommate sleeps

and the walls are thin.

I learn about history

from scholars I will never meet

and listen to people talk about books

that I read many years ago.

I travel to a small desert town

filled with the bizarre

and to an Appalachia

terrorized by old gods.

I stand in my bare feet

on cold tile floor

with warm, soapy water

covering my hands.

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