East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​

No Recovery

I sing no more.
He took my songs
with his left hand
yet gave me voice
with the right
              to cry,
                          “Me, too.”
But crying exhausts me.
A lifetime of held back
             tears stream.
             DAMN THEM.
For rivulets carve
cheeks clear
Exposed flesh
Invites infection.
I do not imagine
I can recover.

Mary Hochadel


Redeemer Cemetery anchors soulds to this
spot, the dead and the living. Enter.
Here, mausoleums house hard beds,
single slabs with soft rest pillows.
The woman pedals past.

Alongside cracked lanes, granite headstones
state who goes there.
In the back corner, small plaques
give names and dates, in and out.
The woman brakes.

So poorly marked, these cheap seats,
like ledgers on Ellis Island.
No mention of how loved, how longed for
yet. So unnecessary to tell others this
in concrete.

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