Read a Poem
Forget-Me-Not
by Rose Marry
Berry syrup, purple rain, joyful violet, plum
blossom, I stare at the paint samples before
plucking one from its dozen siblings and thinking
of you. Lilacs grow in the front yard—you stand
on a ladder, trimming flowers for vases. Before
they wither, the house fills with sweet
aromas mixing with smoke from your freshly-lit
blunt. Outside, your dream car sits, a plum-crazy
Dodge Charger with Ozzy seat covers and a tray
to catch the ashes. With the paint sample in hand,
your influence paints my room—perhaps my house
purple. And once it’s painted, I will think of nothing
but you. And someday, when I lose you, I’ll burn
the house to the ground and sleep in the ashes.
Forget-Me-Not by Rose Marry from Volney Road Review. 2022. Used by permission of the author.
About the Author
Rose Marry graduated with an MFA from the Northeast Ohio MFA program. She served as the Editor-in-Chief of Jenny Magazine, and her fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in several anthologies and literary magazines, including Straylight Magazine, Anomaly, and Laurel Review. When she’s not writing, she can be found drinking tea and trying to keep her horde of plants alive.
Write a Poem
Write a prose poem describing one or more aspects of a post-mortem: the minutes after someone’s death, funeral, cremation, or the memorial a year later.
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How brilliantly has the Fall painted itself!
were some of my Grandma climactic words,
the last of hers for me Ill always remember.
She uttered them rising up on her terminal bed,
two days before passing on in the Ostrov hospital.
And, indeed, following her awestruck grazing gaze,
I too turned and looked and saw the autumn dyes
of the countless leaveseyes of as many sunsets
set aglow by the parting time by nighly closing in
on the edge or point where time itself is no more.
In November she was born, in November did she
gojust a day after her last birthday while the Fall
doled-up itself for her as best it could as if she too,
after all, was to follow into the house of Agathon
Postmortem Thoughts
Sadness and sorrow for those close by,
But happy is the heart prepared to die .
I, who once traversed past the spiritual dimension
Recognize its reality.
And I wonder what this departed is experiencing.
I tried to encapsulate her soul
As it left her body, but failed.
Perhaps its different when the vessel is dead.
I wonder about her awareness.
Her body laid to rest, her soul intangible.
Happys the soul released to live,
Through death the body to give.
And I remain with a feeling of loss.
Day 26
Write a prose poem describing one or more aspects of a post-mortem: the minutes after someones death, funeral, cremation, or the memorial a year later. Please visit https://tovlis.wixsite.com/tovliwriter
Little Red Jacket
I invented a story. I gave it a red, leather coat with rufflessomething Michael Jackson might dance into and toss to the audience while leaving his electric stage behind. But it was my mothers little red jacket. She chose it to wear every Friday with black skin-tight leggings and rhinestone slippers at the beginning of her eighty-fifth year.
The balls! I thought to myself. Then I asked, out loud, at a volume she could not help but acknowledge. What do you think death will be like?
Quick. And, incidentally, make sure you arent around. The last thing I need to see before death is a kid with a dumb ass look on her face.
Maybe it would be an enlightened face.
Impossible. You never learned how to hold an unfiltered Chesterfield between your fingers or pour a bottle of wine in such a way it never becomes empty. Which reminds me: Wheres my Prosecco? She poured a glass and forced me to fetch a fist full of ice cubes, each one dutifully molded into the shape of the ace of spades.
Thats when I began my story, deciding to wrap it in red leather. It took a long time to finish. There was only one character. There was only one voice. I made it sound like my mother yelling at the top of her lungs, begging her kids to return home for dinner.
She was thirty years old when she started yelling for her kids.
At forty, she left home and went to work. At fifty she planted roses in the field next to the house Dad built her. At sixty, she wanted to travel the world with me. At seventy, she disappeared and would not answer letters or phone calls. At eighty, she asked if she could move to Cleveland and live with us. It was that or a West Coast nursing home. Shed buried everybody else.
In her eighty-eighth year, death was quick. It went like this: while lying in a dark room, her eyes opened forever. Her lips mouthed a gap of unacknowledged secrets. The cupboard above her bed slammed shut and a displaced spider walked on air. My mother didnt even bother to wave goodbye, pretend to see something lurid or beckon as a pastel light delivered that cooperative of sand concealed in the distance. Resistance wavered like an apology when there was nothing left to say.
Of course, I made that last part up. I wasnt there, by design.
Eventually, I made the whole affair into a story that ended with a woman who insisted on wearing a flashy red leather jacket to her mothers funeral. She could barely remember her mothers face or voice, but anyone who mourned the loss that day could not get those leather ruffles out of their intrusive little minds. They tasted my mother's voice while they ate cucumber and mayonnaise sandwiches without crusts, smoked cigarettes, and poured their wine over ice cubes that reminded them of various card games.
It was as if the dead had left the stage, tossing what was left of a dancing presence into the air for anyone to seize or wear.
(c) Tovli 2024
what a woman
one who put herself for others
giving, loving and caring
showing her love
how she was sharing.
devoted mother, friend, daughter and wife
a teacher, nurse, caregiver and more
showing no strife
as she went on with her story lore.
at a moments notice
she was on call
offering peace to neighbors
and family and in the mall.