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Image by Cora Leach
Writer's pictureNolcha Fox

Grief Is a Four-Letter Word

My friends put on swim floats and snorkels

when I walk in the door.

Awkward silence is a bucket with holes

they pass me when I cry.

I flood the room. Everyone paddles.

They give me an extra napkin

to sop up my tears.

My dead husband is a nuisance

they put up with for an hour

before they nudge me out the door

with promises of casseroles

and a nice man they want me to meet.

I find more pleasure in a gallon of ice cream

than in the cold comfort of my friends.


published in Sonnets to Sing

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