Grief Work

#1
     Bones & Soup

At times, you are sure you will recover enough
To strain bones from soup, though they say
You have, at most, two weeks to live.
Last night, your hands combined the invisible.
Last night, I could not transfer you from bed
To chair to toilet. Your legs have become beetle
Antenna, without their brittle, brilliant knowledge.
I want this to end. Forgive me.

#2

Snakeroot. Mint.
The reek of my father weeks before he died.
     I love you. I mean it.
Now, as then, it follows me home

#3
     Learning the Word

Everything: Name. Hair. Mouth.
Then, someone says, “Good morning.”
A stranger, at that.

Yellow curtains with leaves

That mean nothing.
Then, yellow becomes: Yell, loss.

Give me the clout of the moon.

#4
     Something Not Possible

I covered the gilded mirror at the entrance of our home.
Nothing elaborate. A woven throw.
I didn’t want to see myself. Though, three days
Later, am almost willing. I return it to its place on the old couch.
Others imagine I have returned.

#5
     Returning

Sometimes, in the shower, of all places, you return
To me as a bride, Maltese lace on mahogany shield back chair.
Mostly, you are misplaced teeth or a right eye, blind & eggshell blue.
Mostly, I am feeding you sips of bisque, slivers of brie
& you tell me, again: If you bring me brie, I won’t die.

#6

As in: air-stalking woman.
I try again: Lungs―no mouth―as prongs.
Let me be anyone other than who I am.

#7

I believe I say goodbye.
I can’t.

Again. Good. Bye.
I can’t.

Do zobaczenia translates as: See you.
Feri bhetaula: We will meet again.
Namaste: Goodbye and Hello.

My daughter,
At seventeen, grabs the car keys.
I yell (after she is gone):
Call me when you get there.

I am learning the language.

Previously published in The Pedestal Magazine.

This is the Dying Language of the Ös

Thirty-five men and women in Siberia speak
with vanishing vowels and consonants, dream
of thirty-five goslings that slide
along Lake Lena

Here in America
I am my husband’s kün garagi—
the eye of the day—
His house is his dream—wooden
with a porch, three chairs—
no one inside except me his apchi—
the one who remains at home

Here in America
my day is long a short   o burdened   u
my milky invention of baby   mouth   suck

In my sleep a woman of the Ös
recites her husband’s name three times
I wake, name the ants trekking
toward oblivion along Lilies of the Valley
he brought me
I name them:
Vow, Frost, Vanish—
I do not want to disappear

What do the Ös say when they awake?
This morning I want to say:
Azen Azen
Hello Hello

Previously published in Offcourse, A Literary Journal (University of Albany).

Amy Small-McKinney's second chapbook, Clear Moon, Frost, is now available from Finishing Line Press. Her first chapbook, Body of Surrender (Finishing Line 2004), was showcased at Poet’s House in New York. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2004 and again in 2006. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Wild River Review, The Cortland Review, ForPoetry, Elixir Press, Mad Poets Review, upstreet, The Pedestal Magazine, and Blue Fifth Review. She was guest editor for the June 2006 issue of The Pedestal Magazine. Her poem, “Nigeria 2002,” was awarded third place in the 2007 Philadelphia Eco Poetry Project. Her Cockapoo, Willie, is working on second novel, Grrrs of Wrath.