I am. Still. Angie

I am. Still.
by Angie

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
            I imagined a thousand different lives she could have lived.
            I imagined myself an old mother of two strong women.
            I imagined our house happy.
            I imagined her smiling.
            I imagined her.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
            I listen to the same depressing song over and over again.
            I paint maudlin pictures.
            I soak in long sobbing hot baths.
            I find comfort in wallowing.
            I wallow.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
            I don’t want to smile to make you more comfortable.
            I don’t want to talk about the weather with you.
            I don’t want to feel beautiful.
            I don’t want to flirt.
            I don’t want to comfort you.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
            She never kissed an anxious boy in an orchard.
            She never fought me.
            She never loved.
            She never breathed.
            She never.

I am a woman whose daughter has died.
I am a woman who had a daughter.
I am a woman now.
I am.

:::

about this piece.
Angie describes her poem, "I wrote this piece after receiving an email from an old friend. It was flirty and cute. Without mention about my daughter's death, I began the email, 'Do you know about me now? I am a woman whose daughter died. I don't want to flirt. I don't want to talk about sport. I don't want...' And it was a good long rant. I decided to work it and play with the language and repetition. I have reworked it since it was originally published."

This poem was originally published in Literary Mama's October 2009 edition.

about the poet.
Angie is the editor of still life 365. Her second daughter Lucia was stillborn after 38 weeks of pregnancy. She writes about her experience with grief and mothering at still life with circles.