Often I find poems that speak to me in The New Yorker, frequently when I am catching up reading back issues. I share this exquisite poem by Saeed Jones because of the depth of emotion it evokes. And yes, because I’ve been there, and oh yes, I wish I had written this poem. The stunning photograph is by Tasha Kamrowski.
A SPELL TO BANISH GRIEF
Only when you wake to a fistful of pulled hair
on the floor beside your bed and, from a glance,
can guess its weight, when you study dried tear
streaks on your cheeks like a farmer figuring out
where the season went wrong, when a friend calls
out your name three or four times before you know
your name is yours, when your name fits like clothes
you've suddenly outgrown, when there is too much
of you, too few of you, too you of you, and the mirrors
wish all of you would just look away, when the clocks
can't feel their hands and the calendars begin to doubt
themselves, when you begin to agree with the glares
from mirrors but your reflection follows you around
the house anyway, when you catch yourself drunk
on memory, candles lit, eyes closed, your head tilted
in the direction of cemetery grass, yellow and balding
above what's left of the body that birthed you, and you
try to remember the sound of laughter in her throat
and fail, only then, orphan, will I take all my selves
and leave.
Saeed Jones
The New Yorker
June 13, 2022