Grief and Loss

Couch Potato

The lawn glows green outside my window.
The sunshine beckons.

I keep the drapes pulled so I won't hear the birds sing,
the wind murmur in the cedars,
so I won't be drawn
by the buzzing of the bumblebees
prospecting for fragrance in my roses.

I keep my eyes reined in
harnessed to the screen
in front of my chair. I pay attention.

Don't look outside, don't, don't.
He isn't there, turning over the compost, staking
the tomatoes. He won't be mowing the lawn,
or lifting strawberry runners
with muddy fingertips.

Keep watching the screen. See the fast food ads,
the talk shows, the lives of kangaroos. The news,
the war wherever, the long distance telephone commercials,
and then it will be
night. Keep watching.

He won't be coming in for supper. Don't
look out for him. Get yourself
a pizza pop and a glass of milk
and watch. Leash your eyes
to the flickering square until the night deepens and fades
and the dawn breaks over the wall.

©Susannah Anderson, 1997
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Weekend Daddy

He gave you candy
Milk chocolate to smear your faces with,
Kisses in tin foil,
Licorice ropes.

Sticky cotton on a stick, pink and blue,
To bind up your wounds.
Cookies with sprinkles,
Watermelon gum.

Boom boxes, CDs
To scare off the boogie man.
Mountain bikes
To dash away your tears.

Sweet platitudes,
Vacations in Maui.
Are you happy yet?

Snapshots

Lorna Anderson, 1915 -2001

I picture her in heaven,
making a list:
angels,
correlated with their human charges
and sorted by date.

I see her knitting.
No babies there to comfort
with vivid afghans, knitted on the bias
for cuddliness.
She's designing mittens,
long stripy scarves and tasseled toques,
and ski masks.
They do have winter:
what's heaven without a ski-hill
or a pond to skate on?

I see her at the trail-head,
walking a log. Cheeks bright, hair blowing,
brown again and silky.
She cherishes a wild bouquet
of Indian paintbrush, ripe salal
and everlasting.

©Susannah Anderson, 2001