Grief Sits in a Striped Chair
by Karen Terrey

You’ve carried the antique, silk threads of pink
and ivory, inside from the back yard. It’s raining.
In the morning, springs sag when you sink
down, a silhouette of eyelash flashing.
Towards some uncertainty, you turn your face.
At one time I carried you from room to room like an egg.
I lean forward now to listen for your growing voice
while you pull a wool sock up your leg.

Some of us starving souls must be taught how to eat.
I don’t always know, kneeling down at your feet,
what I’ve lost, what I need, as I get older.
Your hand on my arm becomes more familiar,
how you bend like a river when you reach for the shoe,
how you rise, grateful, when I hand it to you.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.

Karen TerreyKaren Terrey is a writing coach in Truckee, CA, through her business Tangled Roots Writing and teaches writing at Lake Tahoe Community College and Sierra College.  Her chapbook Bite and Blood will be available 2015 from Finishing Line Press. She blogs at

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