Paper Calendars
I cling to paper calendars
Note
the birthdays of those I love
Forget
to send them cards.
I
trace the oddity of this year
For
one year only
there
is a week for every year of my life.
I’ve
never used them up before.
And
next year I’ll double back
Count
one week twice
Each
year adds more duplicity.
The
way the calendars forces 1 and 31 to share a line
To
keep the rows an even four,
Form
more essential than clarity,
Contained
duplicity the goal.
Untitled
Right back here again
In
the icky in between
Booking
flights to see the sights we do not want to see
Tubes,
monitors, hospital beds
Diminished
body
Diminished
mind
My
dad.
Final Clearance
Eventually someone will go through this place too
Deciding what to throw and what to keep
What deserves a second life
What does not
I won’t be there to direct the future
Explain the past
The gap will have to be just that
A gap
We think we’ll know and can prepare
We never can
A house is just a house
And stuff is stuff
And books (oh books!)
Remain
unread
The Cycle
Trapped in a cycle of regret
My
mother clings to slights
imagined
or real
Decisions
made she wants to reverse
Anxious
over judgments offered
when
her children were young and burdensome.
Heidi Slettedahl is an academic and a US-UK dual national who goes by a
slightly different name professionally. She is hoping to live up to her
potential now that she is over 50. She has been published in a variety of
online literary journals.
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