Broken Spoons: Grief’s First Year (Raw Earth Ink 2O24)
by Rachael Ikins
By Editor Sharon Waller Knutson
Rachael Ikins, author of thirteen books says her latest poetry book, “Broken Spoons: Grief’s First Year” is her best book, which is why in one week she sold a box full.
“It’s a book about loss, love, grief and healing for those who are grieving the death of pets or people,” she said.
Patricia D. Dickinson, retired assistant library director, founder and moderator of the Canastota Writers Group, grief support leader, writes:
"I have read Rachael Ikins' BROKEN SPOONS four times. First to last... then last to first. I am overwhelmed with the breadth and depth of it. The images -- layered, abundant, so real they seem to invite us to hold them tight to teach us what grief and healing is.
Ikins describes how hidden grief can be: "nobody sees..." Exactly. Grief at its worst is solitary. It can be lifted with the care of those who love us. But nobody knows the depth of a love that saved both Rachael and her dog.
She describes the grief of the rest of the living family... who carry their loss in ways she so fully understands. With the shock, hope believes there can still be a miracle to give more time. But, as the author reminds us so often: "rules are rules."
Each of those brilliant powerful images will linger long now because they are written on my heart too.
Ikins' description of her dog Sassie preparing to leave this realm was filled with hope and heartbreak for Sassie was sitting on Rachael's heart as she wrote this."
I’ll let my favorite poems speak for themselves:
Rachael Ikins, author of thirteen books says her latest poetry book, “Broken Spoons: Grief’s First Year” is her best book, which is why in one week she sold a box full.
“It’s a book about loss, love, grief and healing for those who are grieving the death of pets or people,” she said.
Patricia D. Dickinson, retired assistant library director, founder and moderator of the Canastota Writers Group, grief support leader, writes:
"I have read Rachael Ikins' BROKEN SPOONS four times. First to last... then last to first. I am overwhelmed with the breadth and depth of it. The images -- layered, abundant, so real they seem to invite us to hold them tight to teach us what grief and healing is.
Ikins describes how hidden grief can be: "nobody sees..." Exactly. Grief at its worst is solitary. It can be lifted with the care of those who love us. But nobody knows the depth of a love that saved both Rachael and her dog.
She describes the grief of the rest of the living family... who carry their loss in ways she so fully understands. With the shock, hope believes there can still be a miracle to give more time. But, as the author reminds us so often: "rules are rules."
Each of those brilliant powerful images will linger long now because they are written on my heart too.
Ikins' description of her dog Sassie preparing to leave this realm was filled with hope and heartbreak for Sassie was sitting on Rachael's heart as she wrote this."
I’ll let my favorite poems speak for themselves:
Grief
Grief is a forgotten crocodile somnolent in sunlit depths
while you wade after crabs, crawfish, flipping rocks and laughter.
Grief embraces you, an arm around your shoulders constant,
even as you squish mud between your toes, and a newly returned
redwing blackbird swelling red/yellow declaration sings from sedge grass stems.
One day last week you climbed out of bed unselfconsciously into yesterday’s clothes full of/swollen with happiness. Love trotted ahead on the path, you galloped for the woods. Tree frogs chuckled from sycamore dangle. Forest’s graphite perfume.
Then that crocodile grabbed your ankle
under the same sun,
the same songs, your heart
cracked open
helpless as a crab crushed
between carnassial teeth.
Too late you remember; hearts spill,
again, and again, marbles rolling all which way,
brightness bouncing
out of reach.
Memoir of an Elderly Dachshund
When they adopted me I was the smallest.
There were bigger sisters and brothers. People
gave me toys. Oldest Sister took them all. She had
such need. I could smell it. I contented myself
with a throw pillow.
When the taller siblings created a forest of legs,
teeth beneath the butcher block, I chose
the couch in the front room. The back rested against
a picture window. I used to climb up there. I dragged
my pillow. As I watched the world go by and barked,
I pulled all the stuffing out of my pillow's carcass.
I dragged its corpse to my crate every night.
Big Sister's crate held so many toys, when she shifted
she squeaked. I loved my quiet pillow-skin.
Sometimes mom stuffed it and sewed it shut. I think
she liked the process, my eviscerating pillow.
Her repair, gift for me again. She liked that it was mine.
We moved. Sister and Brother left us. I was the only dog.
Uncle Mike came over with a present for me. Mom told him
I never played with toys. I surprised her when I grabbed
the mallard duck plush, shook it hard enough to make
it crinkle and quack, to break its neck.
I killed my duck again every homecoming, after car-rides.
One day we adopted Little Sister. She was smaller and shorter
than me. She barked. She peed on Mama's belly. She embarrassed me.
They gave her lots of toys, pink camo bears, orange doggies, kongs,
rubber balls, toys that squeaked, rang, or chirped.
She is very good at eviscerating them. Within a day usually,
plastic squeaker silenced, white guts on Oriental rug. Mom gave her
a duck of her own. She likes my duck. I tried to hump her. She growled.
When we rough-house I always win. We don't live in the house
with the sofa under the window anymore. Or the country cottage,
Or in the faraway city where mom's heart beat way too fast.
We live on the third floor with a balcony. We are home.
I watch little Sister break my duck's neck.
I curl in my soft bed next to mom's chair. I guess it is
her duck now. I pretend not to care.
Stupid duck.
Seeking Hope
“Running down the street naked with her hair on fire “ that’s what they say,
I burst into appointments that don’t exist.
Morning circus: bits of bacon, broken treats, fly the air, three cans yawn open, for my dog every time she ventures near the kitchen.
All that silverware: spoons dabbed in hope and stew, knives that sliced hotdogs, peanut butter smears on the floor.
I dash this way and that, cats steal dog’s food, projectile vomit onto her head, stuck in her ear hair. I laugh because
what else is left?
He bumps his body with hers , his eyes beg me why won’t she play. He refuses his dog food, our life shocked silent when the vet said,
“Good thing I did blood work.”
Two weeks ago I cried into his fur.
Nobody sees my galloping heart, my going-through-the-motions, vacuuming, hair wash, laundry.
Nobody sees the bits of kibble and broken up milk bones
I pick out of the washer bottom and from dryer lint screen.
Those little prayers that didn’t dissolve.
Nobody sees how she tucks herself
behind my legs in the dark bathroom
or how her eyes hypnotize me to leave my anxiety-cloud
to play tug-of-war with her new toy.
Those moments when her tail lifts my heart-flag,
she chases rabbits.
Gratitude, today’s sunset together,
piled in blankets, cat, dogs, me and five of her squeaky toys,
our once-neat house littered with crumbs from
all those
prayers
When they adopted me I was the smallest.
There were bigger sisters and brothers. People
gave me toys. Oldest Sister took them all. She had
such need. I could smell it. I contented myself
with a throw pillow.
When the taller siblings created a forest of legs,
teeth beneath the butcher block, I chose
the couch in the front room. The back rested against
a picture window. I used to climb up there. I dragged
my pillow. As I watched the world go by and barked,
I pulled all the stuffing out of my pillow's carcass.
I dragged its corpse to my crate every night.
Big Sister's crate held so many toys, when she shifted
she squeaked. I loved my quiet pillow-skin.
Sometimes mom stuffed it and sewed it shut. I think
she liked the process, my eviscerating pillow.
Her repair, gift for me again. She liked that it was mine.
We moved. Sister and Brother left us. I was the only dog.
Uncle Mike came over with a present for me. Mom told him
I never played with toys. I surprised her when I grabbed
the mallard duck plush, shook it hard enough to make
it crinkle and quack, to break its neck.
I killed my duck again every homecoming, after car-rides.
One day we adopted Little Sister. She was smaller and shorter
than me. She barked. She peed on Mama's belly. She embarrassed me.
They gave her lots of toys, pink camo bears, orange doggies, kongs,
rubber balls, toys that squeaked, rang, or chirped.
She is very good at eviscerating them. Within a day usually,
plastic squeaker silenced, white guts on Oriental rug. Mom gave her
a duck of her own. She likes my duck. I tried to hump her. She growled.
When we rough-house I always win. We don't live in the house
with the sofa under the window anymore. Or the country cottage,
Or in the faraway city where mom's heart beat way too fast.
We live on the third floor with a balcony. We are home.
I watch little Sister break my duck's neck.
I curl in my soft bed next to mom's chair. I guess it is
her duck now. I pretend not to care.
Stupid duck.
Seeking Hope
“Running down the street naked with her hair on fire “ that’s what they say,
I burst into appointments that don’t exist.
Morning circus: bits of bacon, broken treats, fly the air, three cans yawn open, for my dog every time she ventures near the kitchen.
All that silverware: spoons dabbed in hope and stew, knives that sliced hotdogs, peanut butter smears on the floor.
I dash this way and that, cats steal dog’s food, projectile vomit onto her head, stuck in her ear hair. I laugh because
what else is left?
He bumps his body with hers , his eyes beg me why won’t she play. He refuses his dog food, our life shocked silent when the vet said,
“Good thing I did blood work.”
Two weeks ago I cried into his fur.
Nobody sees my galloping heart, my going-through-the-motions, vacuuming, hair wash, laundry.
Nobody sees the bits of kibble and broken up milk bones
I pick out of the washer bottom and from dryer lint screen.
Those little prayers that didn’t dissolve.
Nobody sees how she tucks herself
behind my legs in the dark bathroom
or how her eyes hypnotize me to leave my anxiety-cloud
to play tug-of-war with her new toy.
Those moments when her tail lifts my heart-flag,
she chases rabbits.
Gratitude, today’s sunset together,
piled in blankets, cat, dogs, me and five of her squeaky toys,
our once-neat house littered with crumbs from
all those
prayers
Today
Begins the day of days without you,
the foreverness of them. The dust lies on books,
the fan shushes my anxious heart and the fish tank bubbles.
Silence rushes into empty spaces where your name lives.
Heat presses lips flat to window glass,
urine-burnt grass patches crisp lawn.
Moon rises, pumpkins fatten,
rain falls in the night, and
you are gone.
Katydids sing,
robins rebuild their nest,
you are gone.
We fumble in the darkness of our new order.
Without you, baby boy chafes in eldest’s jacket.
She who is new, is too small to fit. I grapple with bags and boxes of food, treats, medications from the headlong hurtle to life.
I can’t throw them away, close the drawer.
I don’t vacuum. I don’t change the bedsheets.
Where is the relief? No more pain or fear but
relief skips every other heartbeat.
Relief aches in shoulder joints.
I fall asleep, your toy by my cheek.
Whispering your name over and over and again.
My fingers’ skin remembers.
Those whorls and grooves release memories:
your hair, of the feel of all the lost—prickly, suede, the weight of warmth and how it was, waking up,
my hand carelessly
on its back
on your belly. Today you are not here.
Anyone who wishes to buy a book contact Rachael Ikins at rachaelikins@gmail.com.
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