Because itís February Iíve forgotten
what dusk looks like, how a day might end
with a soft sigh, suddenly without apology.
The days pass quickly and will be
forgotten, they tell me. March will arrive
with a lion or a lamb, but also New Street
at my grandmotherís house
where all the grief a mother feels
stays forever when her eldest passes first.
Now they lie side by side in Paramus
down the road from the Reformed Church
started by Dutch ancestors, the ones
bound never to play cards
on Sunday. And because itís February,
Iím going to get out my deck
and play euchre every night. Iíll deal you
five cards, let you figure out what
trump should be, hope I get the joker
because heís the best bower. Weíll play
especially on Sunday because Iím sick
of following rules, sick of waiting
for the end, whatever shape it comes in.
1. essay in Waxwing Magazine, spring 2018, "Distinguished Member of the Regiment"
2. essay in Solstice Literary Magazine, spring 2018, "Come Home in Glory"
3. poem in Stone Canoe, spring 2018. "Geometry Class"