None of Them Are You
A book of poetry
None of Them Are You is a book of poetry organized into seven sections. Our sons were born on multiples of seven – December 7th, March 14th, and February 21st. Our eldest, Nicholas, died seven days after his dad’s birthday and seven days before mine. Back when our family was barely treading water in the sea of addiction, I used to run in the early morning and pray to a cluster of stars that looked like a little dipper. I’ve since learned this cluster is called the seven sisters. Grief and love follow me in units of sevens.
After our son’s death, I yelled up at the nighttime sky for not keeping my boy safe. Then I went home and dove into the history of the seven sisters. The tale is one of, if not, the oldest story ever told. It can be traced to a time before writing. Many cultures have a version of the seven sisters’ story – from the Greeks to the Māori. A hundred thousand years ago seven stars were visible but now, since two have moved closer to one another, and so only six are visible.
The Seven Sister’s story starts with Atlas and Pleione – a Titan God and an Oceanid Nymph - who married and then gave birth to seven girls. Once the husband, Atlas, became too busy with anything but holding up the earth, he realized he couldn’t ensure his daughters’ safety. So, Atlas and Pleione hid their seven daughters in the sky. If only I had known this was an option.
The seven sisters reach their highest point at midnight on the Day of the Dead. Hence, they are most apparent when the veil between life and death is the thinnest.
I organized this book into seven chapters, one for each of their daughters because who am I to fight the patterns of nature?
Poems from None of Them Are You
Consumerism
What I’m searching for is
the sun on your wispy hair or
how
your mischievous smile
cracks when you see the unexpected.
I want one more chance
to watch you lace up
your bright orange soccer cleats
while the referee waits.
I don’t need your handprint in stone,
or a diamond
made of your compressed ashes.
They can keep the weighted pillow
that feels like a real hug.
Let me blow bubbles
on your round toddler belly and
hear your
feet as they pad to my side of the bed.
How much will it cost for me to intertwine
my fingers with
yours or
watch you head
out to the second reef with a bright
red innertube under your arm?
You always called
out for your
brothers to hurry.
When you
were little I’d scour the
glossy magazines looking for
the thing that would
help you feel
safe
in the ocean, in the world.
Now that
you’re gone,
I’m offering a trade.
Katie Rizzo
Hawks of Holly
You were high.
I knew it the second I
heard the mower.
It struggled under the
weight of too much
organic matter.
You walked in a
straight line,
my newly planted
garden behind you, shaved
bald.
Everything gone.
You, wearing sunglasses,
without a care in the world,
kept mowing.
Yesterday was
six months since you died.
Despite it all,
the garden
pushed up one deep green
hollyhock.
A promise of hot pink
flowers bursting from
tight fists.
But I want
everything to pause.
Life, time,
our family needs to give
me a second.
But those hawks of holly
don’t listen, they hold out a
giant webbed green hand
and continue on.
Katie Rizzo
Origami
I’ve been folding
our memories
into tiny cranes.
But they
keep sinking to
the bottom.
Someone suggested
that instead of fixating on
the past,
I pour
my love
for you
into your brothers.
But love is not a liquid,
like a river or the ocean.
Nor is it money that needs
to be deposited.
Love is
creasing
paper with my
thumbnail while
thinking about
how
you’d wake up
at 2 a.m. coughing and all
we could do was sit on the couch
and watch the light change.
Katie Rizzo
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