Meatsuits
Within a week of burying my husband,
I took all his clothes, minus three shirts,
from hangers and drawers, stuffed them
into garbage bags and hauled them off to
a church donation bin. I took down pictures
of him, of us. I slipped into my extra-large
meatsuit each morning and went to work,
took care of my sick mother and my daughters.
I believed that getting through the day
was enough, then it wasn’t and there he was.
To find that kind of love again, to cradle
that love in my bones, a baby in a carriage,
a love I’ll raise knowing everything here
is ephemeral. Babe, these are just meatsuits,
this new love promises, love never dies.
I want to believe that we can raise love
high above the bulky restrictions we inhabit,
a dozen balloons floating above us like angels
instead of a tumor resting at the base of a
skull, a tombstone, a marker, these meatsuits.
About the Author: Rebecca Schumejda is the author of several full-length collections including Falling Forward (sunnyoutside press), Cadillac Men (NYQ Books), Waiting at the Dead End Diner (Bottom Dog Press), Our One-Way Street (NYQ Books) Something Like Forgiveness, a single epic poem accompanied by collage art by Hosho McCreesh (Stubborn Mule Press) and her new collection Sentenced (NYQ Books). She is the co-editor at Trailer Park Quarterly. She received her MA in Poetics from San Francisco State University and her BA from SUNY New Paltz. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her family. You can find her online at: rebecca-schumejda.com
Image Credit: Ben Shahn “Clothes hanging in house at farmland auction, New Carlisle [i.e. Marysville], Ohio” (1938) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 