Amy Raasch

Heard at Mom’s Funeral While Wearing a Green Dress

I’m so sorry for your [OXYGEN MASK].

She’s in a better [OXYGEN MASK] now.

[OXYGEN MASK] called her home.

At least she’s no longer [OXYGEN MASK].

She was so [OXYGEN MASK] of you kids.

You were her pride and [OXYGEN MASK].

In Vegas, she loved to play the [OXYGEN MASK] –

she racked up so many points at the casino, 

they let her stay in the [OXYGEN MASK] for free!

They don’t let you smoke in the [OXYGEN MASK] anymore. 

Are you planning to sell the [OXYGEN MASK]? 

It won’t be the same without the big annual [OXYGEN MASK] party.

Is your dad going to stay in the [OXYGEN MASK]?

I’m so happy she had that trip to [OXYGEN MASK] –

remember when she bent down and kissed the [OXYGEN MASK]?

I mean, she didn’t need to – she always had the gift of [OXYGEN MASK]!

She would have loved that [OXYGEN MASK] on you –

[OXYGEN MASK] was her favorite color.

How My Mother’s Kitchen Table is Like Van Gogh’s “A Pair of Leather Clogs”

Operatic mouths spill all the latest 

sunflower news. The farm table, 

stabbed daily, gouges itself 

laughing. The brown room 

blooms with orange-gold 

wounds. I sit in my mother’s 

kitchen chair. All year, 

she waited for summer 

tomatoes from the backyard 

she grew up in, next to a photo 

of my sister and the dog 

who outlived her splashing 

in a Minnesota lake.

Ceramic Pillsbury Doughboy 

shaker full of salt. Coffee 

hot and black. Every day, 

someone would stop by to sit 

at this table. Even after 

the police at the door. When 

the tomatoes were ready,

she’d eat them like an apple.