Carmen Ochoa

“So we must forgive all those Who trespass against us? Fuck that shit. I’m not some charitable trust. There are people I will hate Even after I’m ashes and dust.”
― Sherman Alexie, You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

“Utensil

While feasting
On venison stew
After we buried my mother,
I recognized my spoon

And realized my family
Had been using it
For at least forty-two years.
How does one commemorate

The ordinary? I thanked
The spoon for being a spoon
And finished my stew.
How does one get through

A difficult time? How does
A son properly mourn his mother?
It helps to run the errands--
To get shit done. I washed

That spoon, dried it,
And put it back
In the drawer,
But I did it consciously,

Paying attention
To my hands, my wrists,
And the feel of steel
Against my fingertips.

Then my wife drove us back
Home to Seattle, where I wrote
This poem about ordinary
Grief. Thank you, poem,

For being a poem. Thank you,
Paper and ink, for being paper
And ink. Thank you, desk,
For being a desk. Thank you,

Mother, for being my mother.
Thank you for your imperfect love.
It almost worked. It mostly worked.
Or partly worked. It was almost enough.”
― Sherman Alexie, You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

“There are family mysteries I cannot solve. There are family mysteries I am unwilling to solve.”
― Sherman Alexie, You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

“The Staging

In the weeks after my mother's death, I sleep
Four or five hours a night, often interrupted
By dreams, and take two or three naps a day.

It seems like enough. I can survive if I keep
This sleep schedule as it has been constructed
For me. But if it seems my reflexes are delayed,

Or if I sway when I walk, or weep or do not weep,
Please don't worry. I'm not under destruction.
My grief has cast me in a lethargic cabaret.

So pay the cover charge and take your seat.
This mourning has become a relentless production
And I've got seventy-eight roles to play.”
― Sherman Alexie, You Don't Have to Say You Love Me