by Laurie Klein
the old haunting resummons my saddest August—the flight home, then my brother’s face at our farewell—it will replay our shock when I tripped on the rug, accidentally kissed that little flower of cancer wetly muscling through his cheek. Next time, I wouldn’t flinch. Or touch his arm, speechless. Because he smiled. I could not say, “Oops, clumsy me.” I tell myself, Plant this. Water it well. Unfurrow your mind when it relives the helplessness, twisting, invasive as bindweed—the wild morning glories that spiral upward, from the errant seed.
Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens as well as a forthcoming collection (2024), House of 49 Doors: entries in a life (both from Poeima/Cascade). A grateful recipient of the Thomas Merton Prize for Poetry of the Sacred, she has twice been a Pushcart nominee. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.