Spell for the End of Grief
No incantations, no rosemary and statice,
no keening women in grim dresses.
No cauldrons, no candles, no hickory wands.
No honey and chocolate, no sticky buns.
No peonies and carnations, no handkerchiefs.
No dark and lusty liaisons.
Only you and me to see it out.
Sweet self, let me wash your toes,
brush your hair, let me rock you gently.
Together we’ll change the sheets
and I’ll pull you to me, little spoon.
You be the marrow, I’ll be the bone.
Copyright © 2015 by Amie Whittemore. This poem originally appeared in Baltimore Review. Used with permission of the author.
Amie Whittemore
Amie Whittemore received a BA from the University of Illinois Champaign-Urbana, an MAT from Lewis and Clark College, and an MFA from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. She is the author of Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press, 2016) and teaches English at Middle Tennessee State University.