Eating Down What Remains by Claire Matturro
In what remains of my generation, two cousins died this week.
Eating Down What Remains
The white ceramic bowl of strawberry yogurt is cold in my hands and the last thing other than some frozen corn of what remains in the fridge. Our third hurricane this season will soon roil over and in its wake leave us weeks without power, so I am eating down what remains before it spoils. In what remains of my generation, two cousins died this week. Suddenly the rule that things happen in threes targets one among us too close to lose. A far-off fullness of reunion with those gone might be what remains to hope for as we wait out this third hurricane. And for the third of us to fall. I finish my yogurt but leave the corn to waste with what remains. Outside the wind kicks down a slender moringa tree, the first to go.
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first published in the Spring 2025 issue of SLANT, an online poetry journal of the University of Central Arkansas
https://slantpoetryjournal.wordpress.com/claire-hamner-matturro-4/
Being of Claire's generation, I've thought about writing something like this but I know I could never get it as right as she has. Thank you, Claire.
Ooooof — what a beautiful poem. Feels so deeply honest and like it only hints at those depths both at the same time. Thank you for sharing x