The Price of Admission
The day my mother died, my sisters gathered
at the kitchen table, rifled through her jewelry.
I creeped upstairs to her vanity, rifled through
her junior high autograph book, stuffed it in my purse.
The day my mother died, my sisters dined together,
while I ate sushi with a friend, who’d lost her father.
The day they buried my mother, I gave the eulogy.
I took my niece to the movies.
The day they buried my mother, my sisters
sat on my sofa while I napped.
The day they buried my mother, I became
the outsider instead of the glue.
The day they buried my mother, my sisters
learned she bought a plot for me next to her.
An insider, finally.
The Feast of Vanitas
I can see them all at the Thanksgiving table,
feasting on roasted turkey and brussels sprouts,
leaving the bones for the animals. Chatting up
with each other about television shows
and their latest jewelry acquisitions.
The table is laid out like a Dutch master’s still life.
Only I can see the vanitas, admit its existence.
The hint of monstrous disease, the lurking
of beastly compromise between mind and body.
Let them enjoy their feast. It might be their last.
Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet of ten collections, including Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (Dancing Girl Press, 2026), and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026), and Memory Collector (Kelsay Books, 2027). Her favorite revenge story is The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.
