Nov/Dec 2019 • Vol. XLI No. 6 PoetryNovember 2, 2019 |

Tour of Grief

All seventeen days the orca wears her dead like a crown, sorrow riling to a bob and weave, knocking her hollow. What water and womb can no longer carry, she must carry. We watch through binoculars as if distance were real. As if we were not also tottering on the head of an exhausted, grieving mother. As if we were not also becoming too cumbersome, too heavy to bear.

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All seventeen days the orca wears her dead like a crown, sorrow riling to a bob and weave, knocking her hollow. What water and womb can no longer carry, she […]

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All seventeen days the orca wears her dead like a crown, sorrow riling to a bob and weave, knocking her hollow. What water and womb can no longer carry, she […]

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