When we go, when we get there,
the place we were going,
the place we ended up.
The dream my husband had
when he was dying of cancer–
the house in ruins. Us hiding
behind crumbling walls and now
standing in line at the post office
waiting to take passport photos.
It’s been five years since we stood,
a family of four, waiting here.
Now, I submit new documents–
official death certificates.
One for each of our daughters.
Why did you leave us?
This is the form I have to fill out
to apply for my grief passport.
This is the form
and if I cross anything out,
I must start over. This is
a reminder that it’s just me,
me and two little girls and I
can’t mess this up. There was
a roof that collapsed,
a floor that crumbled. There is
a lady, holding a camera,
who says don’t smile and the drip,
drip of the chemotherapy
traveling through you like
a lost tourist. Where she asks,
annoyed I skipped a section
where do you plan on visiting?
Passports
Rebecca Schumejda is the author of several full-length collections including Falling Forward (sunnyoutside press), Cadillac Men (NYQ Books), Waiting at the Dead End Diner (Bottom Dog Press) and most recently Our One-Way Street (NYQ Books). Her latest book, Something Like Forgiveness, a single epic poem accompanied by collage art by Hosho McCreesh is out from Stubborn Mule Press. Her new collection, Sentenced, is forthcoming from NYQ Books. She is the co-editor at Trailer Park Quarterly. She received her MA in Poetics from San Francisco State University and her BA from SUNY New Paltz. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley.