by Megan Snyder-Camp
The casseroles just showed up.
According to her sister a symbolic casting
of the feminine, not gender but physics, dear—
according to a friend she looked
just like her sister, green bathrobe mid-afternoon,
suitcase still in the trunk.
She’d carried him dead for days.
Out above the reeds a sphere of birds
stretches and knots, rises as one
brown then belly-white. Oh the hunger
when it came filled every chair.
Last updated September 24, 2022