In the kitchen chopping onions
using the good imported knife,
the careless slice draws a breath
of anticipation, a pause before
the bright rose blooms in my palm.
And then the throbbing, echoing
what beats inside, a muted and
dulled thing, grieving grief itself,
mourning the loss of loss, missing
the red and raw of then, when at least
pain kept you tethered, you,
gone just weeks then, not years.
A cedar waxwing tips its elegance
toward me through the window
and I press my hand to my mouth.
About the Author
Julie Kumble seeks and hides in western Massachusetts, mostly outdoors, where she explores words and the visual arts. She prefers a coppice of beech to a bottle of Bordeaux. She is a lifelong generalist and studied philosophy as a student. Fortunately, she has a day job. Her nonfiction book, Leaders of the Pack, Women and the Future of Veterinary Medicine, is published by Purdue University Press.