Haute Dish The Arts & Literature Magazine of Metropolitan State University red flower
Summer 2005




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Angela Jackson

My grandmother told me once
that when you lose somebody you think
you’ve lost the whole world as well,

that when you wake from a night’s sleep
and linger between dream and daylight you think
you’ve finally escaped the weight you’ve been carrying

until it presses firm against your chest, stealing breath
and any hope you might have held in the sweet confusion
of morning, and forces you to see it, hear it, taste it, the
bitter darkness and regret, the emptiness

but that’s not the way things turn out in the end.
Eventually, you pick yourself up
and look out the window,

and witness snow melting into green, muddy lawn,
barren branches swaying slowly,
sky of palest blue fading white across the fields end,
father stacking wood, thick logs of oak and maple

and once you do
you see everything that was there before the world ended
is out there still

and you take a deep breath, exhale slowly, feeling
calm spread across your body, settle in your
fingertips, behind your eyes, across your chest and
you know to go about the every day of things again


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