Linda Sherwin
Christ! California
you’ve let me down (again):
just when I need sun
you send rain
and wind, rattling
my house’s old windows
so that I wake achy
and trembling at 4:15,
imagining an earthquake,
a temblor
(you understand why
I always want to add
an “r” to that word).
No falling back to
sleep,
of course.
Instead, I raise the shade
hoping for dawn,
but it’s too early for that;
there’s only gray and
O, it’s going to be
a very long day.
The children aren’t
home
when I call,
but I can’t complain
because neither am I.
In the shower, I let
myself go where my tears
can evaporate with the steam.
Ever notice how
Grief loves a holiday?
He gets such a kick
from reminding us
who’s not at the table
this year, those for whom
the journey home is just
too far, and long distance
charges way too high.
Grief gets so comfortable
hanging around, nibbling
on a turkey leg, sneaking
the last piece of pumpkin pie,
not ashamed to belch cinnamon
and clove and Carnation evaporated milk
because he’s family after all.
Maybe he should just move in.
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