Today's poem is by Sara Henning

Christmas (1988)
        She has never held any hierarchy of grief . . .
        which seems to me nothing less than a form of enlightenment.
                —Maggie, Nelson, Bluets

        The sadness will last forever.
                —Vincent van Gogh

        Memorial Park, Athens, GA

Before I knew the word yearning, I knew sadness
            rising in my body like one of Stein's hurt colors. I knew my mother
                        cutting into the driveway, cigarette smoke silking her

                        in a second skin. I knew December's blue hour, AC/DC growling
            highway to hell! through her rolled-down windows meant
another mother held her pager now, must answer its vibrating call:

Someone shot too much junk. Someone shot themselves
            in the heart. Someone threw themselves down a flight of stairs.
                        My mother's shift is over. My mother, a social worker, performs

                        complicit magic for the suicidal. The crazies come out
            of the woodwork, she says, but for me, Christmas finally begins:
Waffle House waitress hollering secret codes to short-order cooks,

syrup grafting my menu to the table. A spatula's metallic knell
            rings against the flattop like bells. Babies cry. Truckers shoot the shit
                        between bites of hashbrowns. These are the days I live for—

                        a galaxy of yolk lush on my plate. My mother's lipstick
            glamouring her coffee cup, its hourglass shape perfect in her hands.
Our waitress slides slices of pecan pie in front of us.

Globe lights glimmer over the counter like fly-lush moons.
            In the glow, my mother swipes a French fry into ketchup,
                        paints a smiley face. After supper, we hunt for a gas station

                        with a neon open sign. We carry loaves of bread
            by their plastic throats. At the counter, my mother slips
quarters into the cashier's hand. I wait all year to cruise

Grand Ellen Drive to Memorial Park, wait all year to throw
            bread to the ducks, the ones too broken to fly. I roll slices
                        between my palms into spheres. Mallards rush the dock.

                        We are a forsaken trinity: single mother, lonely daughter,
            winter-starved birds. Somewhere, silver fish tinsel
another family's net. I clutch my mother's hand as the animals

quack their vespers. Mother, I've mistaken love
            for the wildness borne of sorrow. I've mistaken it for breath
                        catching in my throat when you say, Sometimes there is nothing left

                        to live for. That's why people kill themselves . I don't believe
            in mercy killings. I don't believe the soul abandons us
in our darkest hours. I believe in sadness, the shapeless hierarchy

I mistake for enlightenment. I believe in yearning ,
            that imperfect equation. Even now, Mother, I grieve for
                        every moment our bodies ever touched.

Copyright © 2024 Sara Henning All rights reserved
from Burn
Southern Illinois University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission