Scattered Areas of Loss
Today it was the shorn hillside leading
down to the pond. The enormous mower
was there serving as proclamation.
We couldn’t abide the thought despite
the promised smell of cut grass.
We departed quickly, recognizing
the usual signs of grief we are prone
to exhibit whenever we are faced
with changes that resemble death.
Even if we know the grass will grow
back come spring with new leaves
on the trees.
In the article we read to avoid all
the other news, they spoke of beads
and sequins on a jacket Garland wore
singing at Carnegie Hall back
before we were born.
Her arms were outstretched
in one of the photographs, her rapt fans
beside themselves. We struggled to tap into
even a vague recollection of feeling
that way, though we’re sure we have.
Some of the beads and sequins have gone
missing—scattered areas of loss
they were called, and we thought
that sounds about right. All over.
All of the time. The hillside today.
Something or other tomorrow—
a glacier, a songbird.
Kelly R. Samuelsis the author of two poetry collections and six chapbooks—the most recent Oblivescence, a finalist for the Edna Meudt Poetry Book Award (Red Sweater Press, 2024), and Sisi: Re: (Whittle Micro-Press, 2026.) She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee with work appearing or forthcoming in Blue Earth Review, Denver Quarterly, Laurel Review, Poetry Northwest, and The Glacier. She lives in the Upper Midwest.
