Personal effects atrophied:

Gloves, purse, glasses, hat,

Dormant items splayed,

At rest, stay at rest.

We don’t leave the house

For days, then weeks,

Learn something sad

About objects

Once possessed by

Souls gone long


Making my sons’ beds

Most mornings past,

Heartspace ache as

They rode to school

Strapped tight into 

Two tons of metal and glass

Behind a new driver


Predawn haze.

What if these sheets lay inert?

Tender momentum

Ground to dust?

The pain of touch:

A treasured hoodie,

Guitar pick, joystick, blanket, book,

Too heavy for fingers.

Of all blessings,

Being here now

Is greatest.

Bridget Healy writes poems, songs, essays, and fiction whenever inspiration strikes. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri – St. Louis, honing her craft with the help of amazing instructors and peers. Ms. Healy’s works in progress include “Mar,” a picaresque novel of historical fiction (“a literary bodice-ripper,” according to reviews) set on the cusp of revolution in Normandy, France, and a memoir entitled “Work Diary of a Gen X Slacker.” 

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