Closure & Closure

1948 –

The newborn fell asleep beside her mother who died in the early morning from a blood clot in her brain.
Quiet and lovely, Beth’s death was a loss for millions of little girls.

Their bodies were found five miles apart in the kitchens of their homes.
The boy’s mother died on a kidney machine. He died at nineteen from a virus.

He drank too much one night and then died from an overdose.
He was shot in the back. The other was stabbed and slashed repeatedly.

He passed through the door of the hotel with a little pistol in his pocket.
Both were bachelors. Both lived alone. Both were discovered at 8 a.m.

The deadly fire they started in the rafters spread to his crib.
My feathers ruffle. There’s no record of his death, but he died.

Things get better, get worse and then your body is cold and stiff on a table in the mortician’s room.
Your feet, once tucked into your mother’s body, warm and slippery, are
now hidden inside a box.

“Closure and Closure” was first printed in The Paris Review, Issue 143 (Summer 1997). Included in Detective Sentences (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2001) by Barbara Henning © 2001; Prompt Book: Experiments for Writing Poetry and Fiction (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2021) by Barbara Henning © 1997.

With a Bang

—with a bang—the hairy flower wild petunia—flings its tiny seeds—sudden and far—how and why—the scientist—kneels down—clamps a metal band—on a pigeon’s leg—her initials—and id number—my broken toe—x-rayed, recorded—at the Bleecker Street station—an old man—with head bowed—kneeling—on cardboard—an overcrowded—shopping cart, a sign—repent—the end is near—the Indian guru whispers—the only sin—to harm oneself—to harm another—is to harm oneself—to repent too much—is to harm oneself—on the platform—the next generation—leans over a keyboard—riffs, breaks, runs—his body hunched—fi

Barbara Henning

2016

Me, Too

—rheumatic fever—turns the skin—yellow—a heart, scarred—soon—my mother says—you will—take my place—I wear her old stockings—dye my hair henna—like hers—smoke cigarettes—wear red lipstick—her fringed leather jacket—at 18—at the sewing machine—my foot is hers—pressing the pedal—there’s a murmur—in your heart—the doctor says—but soon it will heal—in the afternoon—I birth a child—walk down the hallway—in her turquoise bathrobe—at the zoo—an old female orangutan—locks eyes—with a young woman—breastfeeding a baby—yes, she nods, me, too—at 37—my two children sound asleep—and all of a sudd

Barbara Henning

2016

On the Q

—to Manhattan—through the slit—between my eyelids—an almost empty car—two women dozing—one leans forward—hair cropped—ear level—mid sixties—freckles—arms crossed—head bobbing—as the train jerks—“little brown bag”—on her lap—the other woman—one leg crossed—over the other—shoulder length—glistening black hair—leaning to the side—head against rail—dozing—trading relatively quiet today—investors returning—from Thanksgiving vacation—the car quiet—climbs over—the Manhattan bridge—behind the ropes and rails—the Brooklyn Bridge—dark scattered clouds—the western sun—a golden hue—a six foot three inc

Barbara Henning

2016

Poems

Closure & Closure

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With a Bang

Me, Too

On the Q

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Closure & Closure

More by this poet

With a Bang

Me, Too

On the Q

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