Susan Hayden

The Juice Bar


Photo of Chris Allport

Souvenirs and Evidence

The Search and Rescue crew handed me the bag

like a forgotten sandwich. I held it for days;

a Zip-Loc of belongings: his taxi wallet, damp

from melted snow with twelve, crisp hundred dollar bills,

weekend cash to pay for my 45th birthday.

His red bandanna covered in rocks and ice,

smelling of sweat and torn mountain skin.

Our son’s fifth grade picture in his wallet:

Hazel eyes, pirate t-shirt, gypsy hair;

face staring back at me with that “I am safe” look.

And then the goggles, still foggy,

still defrosting from a long night and buried.

I held the bag for days; it was the last of him.

Later, when people came to pay their respects,

to tell me how “He was in a better place,”

“He died doing what he loved”

only the ache remained,

like heart surgery without anesthesia.

View original post 44 more words

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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