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poem



by Sara Henning



Hiraeth (2015)

 


Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

                        —Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”

 

Buckhannon, West Virginia

 


Outside this window, ice holds a séance.

Wind possesses the hemlocks. Mountain holly

flames and exhales. It’s been years since I’ve let weather

charm me with such a haint’s sorrow. I’ve walked numb

through its weeping. It took me years to know

cold as a kind of tenderness. A practice. A resistance.

Once, driving across Iowa to my mother’s house,

an ice storm broke the sky like her cancer broke through me,

soybean fields velveted, windmills cutting vicious

as snow plumed its burden down. I wanted to go on.

My mother was dying. I was desperate, stupid enough

to choose recklessness. My husband refused,

pulled over, booked a room for the night at a Super 8

near Des Moines. Dinner was vending machine popcorn,

M*A*S*H from the Magnavox TV flashing

the dark room alive. A student from my university

kept going. He wasn’t one of mine. Like me,

he was speeding home, spinning out. When a car

from the next lane smashed into him, his body flew out

of the driver’s-side window. He wasn’t wearing

a seatbelt. The police found him like that, no bruises

or broken bones, just his mother’s perfect boy

embalmed in snow. What do I know? I’m childless.

I’m motherless. How dare I talk to him every time the snow

comes calling? That night in Iowa, I didn’t know

God was coming for any of us. In this city,

snow has the audacity to catch in my eyelashes.

He’s everywhere, the dead boy, sleeping in ditches

which once bloomed with wildflowers.  

Last year, one of my students taught me the word hiraeth,

a Welsh word with no English translation.

She told me it meant longing for a home that does not exist.

She holds the home of her childhood in her mind

when she says this, walls which still echo

her dead mother’s laughter. Outside this window,

mountain hollies, hemlock, ice raising up ghosts.

Everything is hiraeth. Cold’s tenderness. I’d still choose

my mother over my own life.

 


 

Sara Henning is the author of the poetry collections Burn (Southern Illinois University Press, 2024), a Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Editor’s Selection; Terra Incognita (Ohio University Press, 2022), winner of the 2021 Hollis Summers Poetry Prize; and View from True North (Southern Illinois University Press, 2018), winner of the 2017 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Open Competition Award and the 2019 High Plains Book Award. She teaches creative writing at Marshall University, where she coordinates the A.E. Stringer Visiting Writers Series.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sena Jeter Naslund-Karen Mann Graduate School of Writing

Spalding University

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Louisville, Kentucky 40203

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