Gone The look in her eyes,deep and dark,told the storywithout words. White—why white,crisp sheetsand not blueor polka dots? Somehowshe was trappedon this bed, the pull of her worldclosing intoo soon. When we were kidsher gravity of gracecould make the ocean sway, not unlikethe moon. I guess I will have totransform into a fireflyto bring light and joy, to see herin the night— next time.
Theresa is a poet who grew up in a large family and began writing late at night at the kitchen counter, when the house was quiet, and the demands of daily life momentarily receded. Pushing aside piles of unfolded laundry, she wrote poems shaped by care, necessity, and attention. Her work favors lyric restraint and emotional clarity and explores memory, time, and the enduring ties between past and present. The Saints are Sad Is […]
A quiet, observant poem that captures an intimate moment of witnessing—where memory, time, and family converge in the space between presence and invisibility.
