by on December 3, 2021 :: 0 comments

At the office given work
to be done by a certain time
I struggle, other things come up
people hindering me
I stand at a wooden door
of Angkor Wat

My dead husband brings home a crocodile
I put it in a safe place
he keeps letting it out
I am afraid

A phone call for my husband
his claim to have authentic Beatles’ regalia
and originals of songs from Grease
written by his cousin’s husband
worth millions they tell me
explaining to the children
their father is lying

My Apple watch wakes me with a lullaby
tears fall on my cheeks
do I cry for myself?
or are my tears for the world.

– Bernadette Dickenson

editors note:

Our private grief fills a common pit. – mh clay

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