Mourner’s Corner

By ffpccommunications on April 30, 2026April 30, 2026

by Krista Franklin

let's be honest:
there is no
sense
to this.
One
day
We are breath,
the next,
not.
Each morning
I wake
to the swamp
of myself, ev-
ery minute
of the day
before
sloughed
off
and cling-
ing
to the wet
sheets.
What ever
I was
will linger
behind

in this sea
of questions
that
quested
to understand
me. [struck out]
I am
buried
in an alphabet
of answers,
half-
cocked and still
drunk
from the nights
before.
An ocean of A's
work overtime
trying
to tow
me
from
the wreckage
of
an overactive imagination [struck out] myself.
One should say
the names

of the angels who try
to save
them -
so I say, April [italicized]
Angela [italicized]
Andres [italicized], a season
of tulips erupt
like tiny
insurrectionists
in the grave
of gray
matter, the smoky
haze
aftermath
of
wildfires
decades
away -
let me make
it plain:
every
day
I dream
of cracking
this
body
open
like a melon
against
pave-
ment

& flying from it.
The days
I watched
my father,
envious,
at his death
bed, shrinking
from himself,
swing-
ing
between worlds,
his
body
hungering
for things
it was no longer
willing
to digest -
cheeseburgers,
white rice,
Pepsi,
fries -
half-pecked
at
on the hospital
tray.
I am
still

There.
wiping
his forehead
with a wet
rag,
impotent
Against Death,
heeding
his warning
to throw [italicized]
water [italicized]
on Blackbeard [italicized]
and get out [italicized]
of the way, [italicized]
not knowing
there was nowhere
I could run
to escape
the end of this
story.
Once,
in an audience,
on the heels
of my 53rd
year, a woman
from my hometown
asked:

what does it feel like [italicized]
to be an elder? [italicized]
I spun
into a tower
of babel
but should have said:
you [italicized]
tell me. [italicized]
You are still [italicized]
trying to crawl [italicized]
from the carcass [italicized]
of our dead [italicized]
city, [italicized]
back [italicized]
again [italicized]
in the [italicized]
bedroom [italicized]
of your eighth year. [italicized]
I am still
a daughter
kissing the
forehead
of a man no longer here, try-
ing
not to weep
into
his smooth brow.
What the fuck
do I know

of wisdom,
of what it
means
to still
be alive.
Propriety
has his
hands
around my throat.
I am still
wearing
the baby skin of
the children I refused to bear,
& here you are,
edging
me closer
to the grave
I want
nothing
more
than to
tumble in-
to.
Before he left,

my father told me
tales it took
me five
decades
to earn.
I trapped them
in a phone,
like a genie,
I keep
buried
in a bin,
still too scared
to here again.

Poem copyright 2026 by Krista Franklin. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Krista Franklin on The Fight & The Fiddle: “High Priestess,” “This is not your poem.,” and “On Measurement & Invisibility.”

Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt

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