CREEK ROAD GANG
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Zea Ginsburg Piver: 3 Poems
What Remains
Papa, I took your razor from the medicine cabinet
the day of your memorial service.
It’s packed with tiny flecks of graying hair --
pieces of you drop now into my palm.
The clothes you wore
the day before the ambulance took you,
remain in your hamper, unwashed.
A food spill now prized captures you alive, eating.
Your scent permeates the shirt I slept in
the nights you lay dying in the hospice bed.
Papa, if you’re “gone” how does your scent remain
in this shirt held now in my hands?
Papa, I took your razor from the medicine cabinet
the day of your memorial service.
It’s packed with tiny flecks of graying hair --
pieces of you drop now into my palm.
The clothes you wore
the day before the ambulance took you,
remain in your hamper, unwashed.
A food spill now prized captures you alive, eating.
Your scent permeates the shirt I slept in
the nights you lay dying in the hospice bed.
Papa, if you’re “gone” how does your scent remain
in this shirt held now in my hands?
copyright Zea Ginsburg Piver
Last Contact
I helped your feet enter the socks that morning,
filling them with your body still living…
Now in a sealed plastic bag in my dresser drawer,
folded neatly in half, are socks you wore
as you took your last breath.
Before the undertaker arrived that evening,
I slid the socks gently off each of your feet
as if preparing a child to sleep for the night.
Rarely now do I take them from the drawer,
nor open the sealed plastic bag
as I fear your essence would slip away.
I am the oldest child --
I guard the last contact with your body still breathing.
I helped your feet enter the socks that morning,
filling them with your body still living…
Now in a sealed plastic bag in my dresser drawer,
folded neatly in half, are socks you wore
as you took your last breath.
Before the undertaker arrived that evening,
I slid the socks gently off each of your feet
as if preparing a child to sleep for the night.
Rarely now do I take them from the drawer,
nor open the sealed plastic bag
as I fear your essence would slip away.
I am the oldest child --
I guard the last contact with your body still breathing.
copyright Zea Ginsburg Piver
Watch
I wonder
how the watch you wore
each day
and that oriented you
as your mind
loosened its grip
in the final days
was slipped off your wrist
by my brother
and handed to my sister
after you died.
I looked on…
They must’ve conferred.
When? I don’t know.
I do know
the watch you wore
when I was a child,
the one with
gold roman numerals
I found the next week
in a drawer
of your belongings.
I didn’t tell
my brother and sister.
That was the watch
I loved.
I wonder
how the watch you wore
each day
and that oriented you
as your mind
loosened its grip
in the final days
was slipped off your wrist
by my brother
and handed to my sister
after you died.
I looked on…
They must’ve conferred.
When? I don’t know.
I do know
the watch you wore
when I was a child,
the one with
gold roman numerals
I found the next week
in a drawer
of your belongings.
I didn’t tell
my brother and sister.
That was the watch
I loved.
copyright Zea Ginsburg Piver
Biography for Zea Ginsburg Piver:
I have been an avid journal writer for years. My first diary dates back to second or third grade. When I was in my late teens I noticed there were sections of writing, amidst my journaling, that resembled poems. Just before I turned eighteen years of age, I extracted a number of these so-called poems from my journals and hand copied them into a fabric covered book which I titled, "Poems, Prose, Thoughts, Feelings." That was my first book of poetry. I remember feeling elated. Born a dancer, creative movement was my most active form of creative self expression, yet this other creative form (poetry) seemed to activate and nourish different parts of my brain and Being. I almost always kept a journal in which poetic pieces frequently appeared, yet it would be a number of years before I would formally attempt to write poetry. I studied intensively with a published poet when I returned to college later in life, read my poetry at a number of open mics, and for the last couple of years have been part of a poetry writer's group. My first submissions to Creek Road Gang are from my "Papa Poetry Series," written in the months following my father's death.
I have been an avid journal writer for years. My first diary dates back to second or third grade. When I was in my late teens I noticed there were sections of writing, amidst my journaling, that resembled poems. Just before I turned eighteen years of age, I extracted a number of these so-called poems from my journals and hand copied them into a fabric covered book which I titled, "Poems, Prose, Thoughts, Feelings." That was my first book of poetry. I remember feeling elated. Born a dancer, creative movement was my most active form of creative self expression, yet this other creative form (poetry) seemed to activate and nourish different parts of my brain and Being. I almost always kept a journal in which poetic pieces frequently appeared, yet it would be a number of years before I would formally attempt to write poetry. I studied intensively with a published poet when I returned to college later in life, read my poetry at a number of open mics, and for the last couple of years have been part of a poetry writer's group. My first submissions to Creek Road Gang are from my "Papa Poetry Series," written in the months following my father's death.
