Holder

She lost one already, 
on the concrete, near the corner 
                                               of my house. Shell in pieces, yolk runny
                                                                                & shining.
      I force myself out each day, peer up 
through conifer needles, 
remember my husband in scrubs, his mask 
                                                                           & plastic shield.
                  In all these years, I’ve never said to him: Don’t. Don’t tell me.

                                 Her opaque eye                                             blinks back at me.    

I keep my distance. 
My son, in our basement, slams his soccer ball
    over & over. Any day now, his larynx
                            will thicken, lengthen, tilt 
                                    to a different angle
in his neck.            
I’m a holder among holders:
    Incubate, intubate

sonate, nonvocal.
                                                    What nest distraction, 
                   what broken-wing display
                                              would be enough?

Peony buds: nine           there are nine. 

For LT

ξ

Sherry Stuart-Berman is a psychotherapist in private practice. Her poems have appeared in Paterson Literary Review, 2 Horatio, The Night Heron Barks, and Atticus Review, among others; and in the anthologies, Malala: Poems for Malala Yousafzai and Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books. She lives in Staten Island, NY, with her husband and son.