Poetry by Rochelle Jewel Shapiro
When I was little, my middle sister’s face
grew milky. Her thin body swayed, then wafted
to the linoleum like mimosa silk.
I thought she was dead.
I didn’t know you could mime death with held breath.
Today I want to write about daffodils, their yellow funnels,
bell-shaped coronas, and frills, how they trumpet sunlight.
But the breadth of war expands each day to bring more death.
I think of my husband’s staticky call, sirens blaring,
the day the Twin Towers fell, and how he came home
to me as he cannot now.
Today, I want to write about daffodils,
how after flowering, they die back into underground bulbs,
and in season, return to life.
Rochelle Jewel Shapiro has published essays in the NYT (Lives) and many anthologies. Nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net, her poetry has appeared in Prism, Westview, Poet Lore, Rogue Agent, The Virginia Normal, Rougarou, Evening Street Review, and more. Connect with her at rochellejshapiro.com, @rjshapiro, @rochelle.j.shapiro, or @RochelleJShapiro.
