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
Biography
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Sam Frost is a writer living in Los Angeles. She spends her spare time eating bagels and drinking green tea, and she does most of her writing in her phone notes. Find her on Twitter @ sammfrostt
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