Maureen Sherbondy’s poetry has appeared in: Calyx, Feminist Studies, Roanoke Review, 13th Moon,
and more than one hundred other journals. Her two poetry books are After the Fairy Tale and Praying at Coffee Shops, both published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company. Her debut short story collection, The Slow Vanishing, was released in August. Maureen recently read her work on NPR. One of her stories was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Maureen lives in Raleigh, NC. Visit her website here.
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The Emerging Writer at the Conference Suffers an Ego Crisis
Star-struck, I am
in this room dubbed
“hospitality suite”
humming with literary icons
I’ve heard about,
read about, aspired to become.
I sit beside them
stifling the urge to stare,
wanting to meet each one,
jump up, grab them
say “I’m here!”
whip out my camera,
autograph book
act like a fan hooked
on the Red Carpet,
do anything to document
this moment.
Then Imposter
whispers in my ear
the whoosh of flare
the bang of firecracker,
louder and louder blares
You don’t belong here.
They stare at my lanyard,
follow the accusatory U
cord to the clear plastic
framing my name,
name that does not register
a flicker of recognition.
Each shining writer walks
away, or rustles his papers,
talks to only familiar luminaries.
I darken in my corner, choose
which poems I’ll later read
and mutter beneath my breath
one day that will be me.
What They Will Find After He’s Gone
Chilled vodka bottles
stored in the freezer,
his son’s paintings hung
on dusty townhouse walls,
that one gold wedding band
not worn in thirty-five years
hiding in the sock drawer,
creased letters from an old girlfriend,
photos of long-dead relatives,
and that deep indentation
in the couch where he sat
for decades entertained by sports,
watching other people play and live,
as his own life limped by,
the weight of unhappiness
anchoring his body to that one spot
on the worn seat cushion.
December Shiva
The house is thick with grief,
thirty mourners and
no one will say how
the younger brother died.
I want to know
in this house thick with grief
but the question whispered
in the kitchen feels like gossip,
dangles unanswered,
creeps into the life equation.
In this house thick with grief,
no mention of heart attack, embolism,
accident. I picture hanging,
self-inflicted gunshot wound
in this house thick with grief.
The woman I ask shakes her head,
turns away. The Mourner’s Kaddish
minion of chanters cry
in this house thick with grief
when the sister reminisces
aloud about the dead man, his grieving children,
three of them, ten years old and younger.
Sobs rise up, can’t find solace
in this house so thick with grief.
I skip coffee cake and baklava
exit the front door, shoulders weighed
down with grief – those fatherless children,
the widow’s empty bed.