ISSUE 10

Sandra Fees

​

​

​

​​​​

After I think I’m done

with grief—when I say,
I’m not doing this anymore,
I mean, if another ash tree
              wilts, if the honeybees

don’t reinhabit their hive,
if this, and if that, I’ll slough
the last twig of belief. But
              I can’t make it past

January’s headlines, the orca
nudging her lifeless calf,
plying Puget Sound with her
              quenchless snout,

diving again, and again,
as often as she can, as often
as she can bear the weight
              that keeps slipping

her teeth. Again, and again,
her unalterable grip. I vie
for some other outcome:
              what if, what if—as if I

can strike a bargain to revive
the dead, as if I know what
a mother needs, as if I’d ever
              ventured that salty sea.

​

​

​

​