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A quarterly international literary journal

A Good Mourning

/ Poetry /

I’m sorry for the way I mourn those you’ve lost.

I often look the way toward happier things, toward

Peace lilies and yellow tulips.

Toward dances of babies hardly able to stand on pudgy toes.

I don’t send heartfelt cards. My words brief, choppy,

Inappropriate. If they are present at all.

I only think about sending texts of flowery words.

I don’t send flowers.

I do long for you to be comforted.

Like the embrace of my mother in her muumuu

on a Saturday afternoon

After she cleaned the house, hung clothes on the line.

Her list of things to do finally complete.

I imagine her like this, satisfied. Not as the wounded wife,

wounded mother.

Who left the Earthly realm before knowing the blessing

of her own existence.

I’m sorry for the way I mourn those you’ve lost. To know

your sadness is also

To remember my mother’s, and sadly, my own.

When your someone ascends, perhaps I become a child again,

a consequence of longing for a connection

That my mother never found.

I’m sorry for the way I help you mourn that is no help at all.

My condolences

Whisked away in memories.


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