Sam Frost
A Poem for Someone Else's Pain
I see my family lined up in a hallway, dark gray
walls & wooden chairs & they look like chickens
waiting for their morning feed with big eyes
all anxious & Mom’s mom wrapped in blankets
as Mom paces back and forth the same way
she did at the funeral & the old woman in all black
who pounded Mom’s chest & said she had to stay
alert, who said she looked like she was about to
pass out & Mom’s chest bruised the next day
& our fridge full of pity food left to grow mold
This is all after the ski trips & after the pool day
when my cousins got caught making fun of Dad’s
rules all “Stevie don’t breathe! You’re breaking
rule 137” so I see their faces young & tear-streaked
at the burial & my aunt holding their hands & her
own tears dangling at eyelash ends & dad’s truck
being sold & all his clothes boxed & donated &
Mom staring at the ceiling as I sleep on Dad’s side
of their bed & Mom’s dad hauling his lawn mower
to our house & Dad’s brother putting a swing set
in my backyard & everyone trying & trying & trying
I see the kitchen counters unwashed & clothes
piled on the bedroom floor & Mom & I stuck in bed
& our tears & how they wouldn’t stop as days
passed & weeks passed & months & each image
is a picture, is makeshift creation— a fraud— made
from story after story & I never ask for memories
because I feel like a thief of sorrow trying to build
up my pain & Mom says I asked “Are we gonna cry
again today?” & she knew we had to stop & happy
days followed & followed & that’s all I know
walls & wooden chairs & they look like chickens
waiting for their morning feed with big eyes
all anxious & Mom’s mom wrapped in blankets
as Mom paces back and forth the same way
she did at the funeral & the old woman in all black
who pounded Mom’s chest & said she had to stay
alert, who said she looked like she was about to
pass out & Mom’s chest bruised the next day
& our fridge full of pity food left to grow mold
This is all after the ski trips & after the pool day
when my cousins got caught making fun of Dad’s
rules all “Stevie don’t breathe! You’re breaking
rule 137” so I see their faces young & tear-streaked
at the burial & my aunt holding their hands & her
own tears dangling at eyelash ends & dad’s truck
being sold & all his clothes boxed & donated &
Mom staring at the ceiling as I sleep on Dad’s side
of their bed & Mom’s dad hauling his lawn mower
to our house & Dad’s brother putting a swing set
in my backyard & everyone trying & trying & trying
I see the kitchen counters unwashed & clothes
piled on the bedroom floor & Mom & I stuck in bed
& our tears & how they wouldn’t stop as days
passed & weeks passed & months & each image
is a picture, is makeshift creation— a fraud— made
from story after story & I never ask for memories
because I feel like a thief of sorrow trying to build
up my pain & Mom says I asked “Are we gonna cry
again today?” & she knew we had to stop & happy
days followed & followed & that’s all I know