by W.J. Herbert

herself…
well, nothing, really. It’s me
she wants to talk to but she doesn’t know how,

and I can’t help her. Sarah,

a counselor is saying, now that my daughter’s
finally opened a brochure

which lists follow-up services
hospice provides. Sarah…
this stranger is saying,

not gently, or slowly, or softly
the way I would have,

and now I’m picturing the brittle
filament that runs from his landline
to the receiver she’s holding:

Sarah, he’s saying
with a clipped “ah” at the end of it,

as if this syllable is that filament
about to break—

as if he is the one who is breaking it.

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W. J. Herbert’s work was awarded the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Prize and was selected by Natasha Trethewey for inclusion in Best American Poetry 2017. Her poetry, fiction, and reviews appear in Alaska Quarterly Review, The Atlantic, Hudson Review, Southwest Review, and elsewhere. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, she was raised in Southern California where she earned a Bachelor’s in studio art and a Master’s in flute performance. She lives in Kingston, New York, and Portland, Maine.