A Theory of Grief

By KATE GASKIN

After she died
the crocuses bloomed

and the purple phlox.
The daffodils bloomed

and the snowdrops.
The star magnolias bloomed

and the forsythia.
The crab apples bloomed

and the redbuds.
The jewelweed bloomed

and the wild stonecrop.
The rue anemone bloomed

and the oxeye daisy.
The bindweed bloomed

and the blue-eyed grass.
The grape hyacinth bloomed

and the chickweed.
The purple deadnettle bloomed

and the tickseed and the bloodroot
and the spring air

was thawed ice
and crushed petals and powdered sex

and I walked through it slantly,
stutteringly, as if driven forth by

a nightmare, seeing everything
through the new prism

of the sudden and horrible
dream logic of my life.

 

 

[Purchase Issue 29 here.]

Kate Gaskin is the author of Forever War, winner of the Pamet River Prize. Her poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, The Southern Review, and Ploughshares, among other journals. She has received support from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and the Vermont Studio Center.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

A Theory of Grief

Related Posts

Farewell to Pictou County, N.S.

On the night a deer ran into the side of our car, the glass exploded like confetti. I don’t remember crying, I remember it all like that magnificent snow globe, the details lost on me beyond the glittering shards swirling around like snowflakes. I remember being confused later on, when my sister kept insisting that I was crying in the passenger seat until the ambulance came. One of us remembers it wrong.

Celebrating Intimacy of Self: Mauricio Ruiz interviews Melissa Febos

MELISSA FEBOS
I had done so much work in that year to change my thinking and myself and my ideals and my relationship to love, but I couldn't really grow much further without actually practicing it with a person. It's like reading and thinking about dancing in a new way, but you can't get good at it until you actually start dancing.

Reconsidering My Weirdo Hero

TED CONOVER
It seemed to me the most mysterious, imaginative thing I had ever come across. The narrator, in language as simple as the poem I had read, describes life in a small community where... There are statues of vegetables and the sun shines a different color every day.