February 2024
Roseanne Freed
roseanne.freed@gmail.com
Bio Note: My daughter died in February. A hard month for those of us who love her.
I had many fascinating encounters with tourists from all over the world during the dozen years I stood behind my cash register at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles.

How Deep in the Valley

While passing the time in a coffee shop 
with a latte and Facebook,
a photo pops up of you on a lawn 

of dandelions. I laugh to see your elfin face, 
short, punky, chestnut hair, silver ring 
in your nose. Salut Mahalia,

you didn’t die! It’s been a bad dream. 
I look again. I see it’s a three-year-old memory. 
You and Ellemere in the purple sweaters

you knitted. A happy day with your baby 
and your favorite weed, before the cancer 
took you from us.  With cruel 

timing, the song we sang at your funeral,
Sarah Harmer’s How Deep in the Valley,
plays on the sound system. I weep for you, 

my firstborn child. Twelve months now. 
Friends say Sorry. Surprised I’m still grieving. 
It comforts.  Sometimes.  After a parent buries 

a child there is no gentle choreography to help 
us through to the other side past grief. 
There is no other side.
Originally published in Contrary Magazine (Winter 2022)

Cents

An Australian couple’s purchase came to $14.07.
She gave me her credit card,
and he carefully counted out the seven cents. 
That’s what happens when you don’t know 
the money, they laughed.

The next customer bought six postcards.
Me: $6.50 please.
Man: Should be $6.48
Me: Excuse me?
His wife: Give her the two cents!
Man: No! It’s $6.48!
Me: Unfortunately I can’t change how the computer calculates…
Man: Well I know it should be $6.48.
Wife: Give her the two cents!
Man: I know my math!

Of course I could have taken his $6.48 
but he was rude.
Would you like me to call the manager? 

Wife: For god’s sake give her the two cents.
Okay damnit, here…! 
and as he counted out the exact amount 
in pennies and nickels, 
he said, At least you’re literate.
Most Americans are illiterate ignoramuses.

Soap

Quick! Hide this, said an older woman 
passing me a fancy bar of soap, 
I’m buying it for my sister 
and I don’t want her to see it.

I quickly put it in a bag 
which she slipped into her purse,
and then took her money.

Five minutes later, her sister 
who spoke with the same posh 
British accent, 
bought the same bar of soap.
©2024 Roseanne Freed

Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL