Peg Cherrin-Myers

Southern Comfort

for Rich

wind chimes the absence of yesterday's flutters

I’m ankle deep, wearing nothing
but a robe, house shoes, and 
a headlamp while exhuming 
graves directly below my family 
tree. A row of headstones, my one 
and done’s.

     I dig each one up, sever
     their pulsating roots with the blade
     of my shovel, carry each baby 
     in their whiskey-soaked blankets and
     gently lay them on the kitchen table
     where my son’s bris took place 
     years before.

Shaking off the moist dirt and unrolling 
their 8.5 x 11 bodies, I stack one hand 
on top of another, lace my fingers, 
and begin chest compressions  
on stanzas two and three, give 
mouth-to-mouth to their bolded titles
and memorize every line, reciting
them morning, noon, and night
like prayer.

     I swaddle my newborns in clean 
     blankets, place each one into Moses
     baskets, release them down the rivers
     of submissions and only after they’ve
     been taken, can I let go.

born again sober feeling a little life in me

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About the Author

Peg Cherrin-Myers lives in Southeast Michigan. They are a stay-at-home poet who spreads peanut butter on white bread, folds it in half, and dips it into a hot bowl of chili. They wear rainbow Tevas and drive a pickup. Their work has appeared in Frogpond, Stanchion Zine, Kingfisher Journal, Periodicities, and many others. Find them on X (formerly Twitter): @pegcherrinmyers.

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