She carries her grief; she nudges it to the surface
for weeks, and when the grief weighs her down,
her sister whales carry her grief for her.
Women carry grief too, in their pockets.
Their grief is like sea glass, or stones, or loose change.
Morning; fox, or deer, or coyote cut through our lawn—
they still, and turn to look at me while I smoke on the porch.
Tahlequah doesn’t know that I see her, that I carry her grief
in my pocket. Tahlequah, I carry it.
I carry it. I carry it. I carry it.
This poem first appeared in TAB: The Journal of Poetry & Poetics.
—
Suzanne Frischkorn is a Cuban American poet and essayist. She is the author of four books, most recently Whipsaw (Anhinga Press), and Fixed Star (JackLeg Press) as well as five chapbooks. She is the recipient of The Writer’s Center Emerging Writers Fellowship for her book Lit Windowpane, the Aldrich Poetry Award for her chapbook Spring Tide, selected by Mary Oliver, a Connecticut Individual Artist Fellowship, and a 2023 SWWIM Residency Award at The Betsy.
