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    Good Grief
    Good Grief
    Good Grief
    Ebook97 pages48 minutes

    Good Grief

    By Stevie Edwards

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    About this ebook

    Elegantly-wrought misadventures as a freshly-graduated, Michigan transplant stumbling over foal legs through Chicago and kneeling down to confront the wreckage of her skinned knees.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWrite Bloody Publishing
    Release dateMar 14, 2012
    ISBN9781935904526
    Good Grief
    Author

    Stevie Edwards

    Stevie Edwards is the founder and editor-in-chief of Muzzle Magazine and senior editor in book development at YesYes Books. Her first book, Good Grief (Write Bloody, 2012), received the Independent Publisher Book Awards Bronze in Poetry and the Devil's Kitchen Reading Award from Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Her second book, Humanly, was released in 2015 by Small Doggies Press. She has an M.F.A. in poetry from Cornell University and is a Ph.D. candidate in creative writing at University of North Texas. Her poetry is published and forthcoming in Indiana Review, Crazyhorse, TriQuarte

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      Book preview

      Good Grief - Stevie Edwards

      Good Grief

      a collection of poetry

      by Stevie Edwards

      Write Bloody Publishing

      America’s Independent Press

      Long Beach, CA

      writebloody.com

      Copyright © Stevie Edwards 2012

      No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.

      Edwards, Stevie.

      1st edition.

      ISBN: 978-1-935904-50-2

      Interior Layout by Lea C. Deschenes

      Cover Designed by Nik Ewing

      Proofread by Jennifer Roach and Sarah Kay

      Edited by Jamie Garbacik, Courtney Olsen, Alexis Davis, Sarah Kay,

      Gabrielle Dunkley and Derrick Brown

      Type set in Bergamo from www.theleagueofmoveabletype.com

      Printed in Tennessee, USA

      Write Bloody Publishing

      Long Beach, CA

      Support Independent Presses

      writebloody.com

      To contact the author, send an email to writebloody@gmail.com

      FOR AMY

      *

      A prophet is not without honour, but in his own country,

      and among his own kin, and in his own house.

      — Mark 6:4

      Good Grief

      Preface

      When I was eight the doctor said the only way

      to fix my pigeon-toes was to break my legs

      and reset them straight. Dad said it’d be less

      painful to just let me walk crooked. And so it is.

      For My Brother

      on His Sixteenth Birthday

      I am burning my brother on a rooftop

      in September. He doesn’t protest much,

      never screams. I tell him something had to give

      and it couldn’t be me this time.

      I tell him he’s dust to me and sweep his ashes

      off the ledge. He keeps coming back

      a boy and says it’ll be okay. He points to the sky

      like something’s there. I tell him it’s gone.

      I tell him anyone can be born—I was

      born yellowed by an unready liver.

      He says it’s his birthday, so I give him

      a beer and he pretends to like it.

      He looks like he wants chocolate cake,

      so I give him another beer. He says

      he’s had enough, so I give him

      a cigarette. And he takes it.

      He tells me he’s cold. I tell him I held him

      as much as anyone could as a baby,

      supported his needy neck in terror. He asks

      for chocolate cake. He points to the sky.

      He tells me he’s cold. I press my lighter

      to his sleeves and tell him it’ll be

      okay, hug him until we’re both charred

      and warm. He tells me it’s gone.

      What I Mean By Ruin Is…

      When there’s only condiments left in the fridge

      and you join a free online dating service

      so men will buy you dinner.

      When you’ve shucked the night with the dull blade

      of indecision and gulped down everything,

      even the pearls.

      When some old, left-handed love has left

      your guitar strung backwards

      and you can’t find any songs for rain

      in its frets.

      When you wake up next to the body

      of your past and it looks ready

      to wrinkle and bald.

      When the last burn of summer is peeling

      from your breasts and there’s nothing to husk

      the pale raw of new flesh.

      When the woman who wears her hair in the old way

      quits mumbling about Jesus on street corners

      and takes her salvation pamphlets

      to a pauper’s grave.

      When you’re too ugly to pray,

      but pray

                               and the only voice

                 on the drunk subway wails

      good grief.

      Sunday Morning Pastoral

      When I say I woke up next to a cow this morning, I don’t mean I woke up next to someone reminiscent of a cow. I don’t mean a large woman or someone who was just a piece of meat to me. I don’t even eat meat, especially not in the morning, not on a Sunday.

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