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2022 Poetry At Hayner:
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"Sister"
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Sister
By Jane Kretschmann
By Jane Kretschmann
After twenty-two years
she stands here
on this Carolina beach,
barefoot, and says
a second time, “I will.”
Grass widow for so long
she has forgotten how
to please a man--
not in bed, that she has
kept in practice--
but by keeping quiet
when he screws up,
compromising,
making space for his
increasing accumulations.
For an hour the cold beach
sand pumices her soles,
wearing off the tough
skin, leaving her brown
feet pink and raw.
Editor’s Note: The closing stanza of this poem is a metaphor for the difficulty the “grass widow” faces after so many years alone. Relationships are not for the weak.
she stands here
on this Carolina beach,
barefoot, and says
a second time, “I will.”
Grass widow for so long
she has forgotten how
to please a man--
not in bed, that she has
kept in practice--
but by keeping quiet
when he screws up,
compromising,
making space for his
increasing accumulations.
For an hour the cold beach
sand pumices her soles,
wearing off the tough
skin, leaving her brown
feet pink and raw.
Editor’s Note: The closing stanza of this poem is a metaphor for the difficulty the “grass widow” faces after so many years alone. Relationships are not for the weak.
