Holy Relics
“Mail within two weeks after the death of deceased.”
—Emily Post’s Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage.
Who came up with this rule?
Not someone who just left
their mother’s body four feet
deep in the dark, hard ground
of winter. (But that’s what she
would want, of course.
She was proper old school.)
I’ll handwrite them myself,
Like she taught.
Dear (fill in first name),
I am blank, frozen in writing motion.
Thank you for taking the time to attend my mother’s funeral.
I am ripped out of time.
Our family was so thankful for (list: food/flowers/donation)
I am numb and cannot eat. My spine will not let go, it shakes
all day and night long. Do you know how long loss lasts?
Best, Ann’s daughter
I am never going to be called a daughter again.
poem copyright ©2026 by Winifred Nimrod, from Inscape Journal, 2026
Buttering Toast, Mid-Morning Naps Required
I don’t look in the mirror anymore, Win. It’s not relevant,
my teacher said. An old lady now. Easily worn down.
Her cabin and cushion on the mountain, gone. Her monastery,
a care facility somewhere in California where white grapes form.
She lives on the simple. All the stuff, all the boxes marked ‘save to sort later,’ gone. No use for calendars, clothes, or new close friends.
How long has it been, Win? I don't remember.
I say ‘Not long.’ I don't have the heart to say ‘yesterday.’
We laugh out loud together, a pair of old slippers finding their lost
other half under the couch. We slide in together. Time dissolves.
Not even a blip, she is back, my teacher, her voice a transmission.
She lives on moments, sun dazzling on the edge of ocean time.
On the cusp of awake, alive. Rising. Falling. Rising. Falling,
I-could-be-dead-in-the-next-moment. We laugh some more,
recite poems, and weep.
Without missing a beat she says, Win, how long has it been?
I say ‘Not long.’
poem copyright ©2026 by Winifred Nimrod, Winner, Eremos "Thriving Today" 2024
poem copyright ©2026 by Winifred Nimrod,
Honorable Mention, Eremos "Thriving Today" 2024
Under Heart-Shaped Leaves
The Buddha gave
84,000 teachings to one
hundred enlightened monks.
Inscribed, thirty decades
after memorized time.
The Buddha understood the nature
of the mind: some needed a scholarly
labyrinth to unwind; others simply
a word to ride on the breath. So
I say to you: follow what is true,
what is orchid-soft to you. Not that I
am against scrubbing, scrutinizing
the mind, this is noble and wise (sometimes).
But first take a good seat. Reside
with a posture of dignity, with ease
on your insides. Root your pelvis
into worm rich soil. Let your heart be
steeped. Invite your eyes to call off
the search. In the fields of space
between each letter, each word,
lay down. This is how to be a light.
This is how to bloom in the compost.
This is what I know to be true: Life
is made of roadkill and rubble.
But then, there are the 17-year cicadas,
nestled in the dark humus, newly emerged,
blanketing cars and trees and concrete
Garden Buddhas, singing their siren, sacred.
A Broken Bone
I want to write a poem about
broken and whole. About that day
I lay dim on stark cold snow. About
My hand fractured and changed forever.
About bitter and brittle and getting too old—
to battle, to hope. About the fear of slipping
down the rabbit hole. Meeting the Queen
of Hearts—she’s about to chop off my head.
She is a playing card and I am a heart,
mired and beaten and showing up anyway.
Today I can only write about the afternoon
sunlight, the silent slip from morning to night,
the fallen reflection of a fig tree’s weeping
leaves on the airport carpet; murky green
and worn thin, and the touch of a woman’s
soft insistence as I fumble one-handed
at baggage claim 10, “Oh, let me give you
a hand.” Her words wash me with care,
over the thrum of endless bags,
bitterness steps aside, around me
dust glistens in the yawning light.
poem copyright ©2026 by Winifred Nimrod, anthology Something Inside So Strong: Women Writing on Resistance, Resilience, and Reverence