Tag: Roseanne Freed
The Stranger by Roseanne Freed
The Stranger
At my mother’s funeral the rabbi asked,
Who wants to see the body before we close the coffin?
It was good to see her. Wrapped
in a white cloth, she looked peaceful,
like the nun she’d always wanted to be.
I even kissed her cold forehead.
To help us accept our daughter had died
I knew her father and I had to see her,
had to see the body.
We didn’t recognize the person
in the coffin, arms folded across her chest,
at our private viewing. Pain
deeply etched on this stranger’s
face, her cheeks fevered, and her belly
—oh god her belly — inflated
from the total bowel blockage
looked nine-months pregnant.
I hoped my husband didn’t notice.
We stared silently, suffocated
by the truth
of how much she’d suffered.
I touched her hand,
and kissed her cold forehead.
It didn’t comfort.
I don’t know how people take pictures
or cut off locks of hair
from their beloveds’ bodies.
I lit the candles on the table,
held my spouse’s hand,
and we both wept.
*
Poet Roseanne Freed was born in South Africa. After the death of her daughter she turned to poetry to help with her grief. Her poetry has been published in ONE ART, Verse-Virtual, and MacQueen’s Quinterly among others. She’s a Best of the Net 2022 nominee. She and her husband live in Los Angeles.
Exhibit ‘A’ by Roseanne Freed
Exhibit ‘A’
newly married
on our European Grand Tour—
six months in a VW van
during that long ago time
of Europe on $5 a day,
we go to the Black Forest
to visit the German family
we’d met camping in the Transkei,
and us two South African hippies
become Kurt’s exhibit ‘A’—
the Jewish friends.
*
Poet Roseanne Freed was born in South Africa. After the death of her daughter she turned to poetry to help with her grief. Her poetry has been published in ONE ART, Verse-Virtual, and MacQueen’s Quinterly among others. She’s a Best of the Net 2022 nominee. She and her husband live in Los Angeles.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat by Roseanne Freed
A poem begins with a lump in the throat
—after Robert Frost
Sunday will be six weeks
since our daughter died.
A date. Not a celebration.
My mouth eats without hunger.
My pillow forgets how to sleep.
Mail piles up on the table—
six issues of The New Yorker
lie unopened.
People of the Lakota tribe believe
a grieving person is holy
because we’re closer to the spirit world
and inhale a natural wisdom
with our sorrow.
I don’t feel holy,
or wise.
I put her pictures all over the house.
Her father calls them ghosts.
They comfort me.
*
Roseanne Freed was born in South Africa and now lives in Los Angeles. She loves hiking and shares her fascination for the natural world by leading school children on hikes in the Santa Monica Mountains. Her poetry has been published in Contrary Magazine, Verse-Virtual, and Blue Heron Review.