The Sunday Poem: Sari Krosinsky... Election Day Memorial, 1984

There seems to be no telling what parts of our past stay with us...but we take what we need and forget the rest.  Here poet Sari Krosinsky relives a few moments in a car on election day 1984.


Sari Krosinsky edits Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction. Her poems appear regularly in literary and genre magazines. She received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. She lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with her partner and cat.


Want to hear Sari in person?  "Yossele: a tale in poems" debuts at a poetry chapbook release feature reading and open mic on Tuesday, March 22, 7-9 p.m. at Winning Coffee Co., 111 Harvard Dr. SE. "Yossele" is based on myths of the golem in 16th century Prague. The reading features authors Sari Krosinsky and Robert Arthur Reeves and an open mic emceed by Kenneth P. Gurney. It is free and open to the public.




Election Day Memorial, 1984


Death was six months old. Me, six years.

Josh sat beside me on the torn leather seat,

greenhouse-hot in spite of the November chill.

We waited in the car for his mom, my dad

in a church in line for poll booths.


Didn’t mind my dad dating, though

this older boy could make me squirm.

Josh asked how my mom would have voted.

“I don’t know.” What a question.

He said, “Why don’t you ask her?”


Browning leaves speckled the windshield

in shadow, stuck in the wipers. Autumn—

a convenient metaphor, though death wore

spring that year, a Mother’s Day funeral.

“She’s dead.”


“You can still ask her.” Like I couldn’t

come up with a better question

if I could raise the dead. Not why

she’s gone; I knew better. Nor where;

I didn’t want to know.


I said “Mondale” to shut him up,

and because Reagan’s eyes were crooked

in the first-grade newsletter.


The sun slipped behind the boardwalk

a few blocks down, behind the hidden dunes.

I had no questions. The end of the street

was far enough for me to see.


--Sari Krosinsky

Poetry submissions are welcome. Email

Views: 42

Comment by Margaret Randall on March 6, 2011 at 8:55am
In the Minneapolis airport, waiting for a flight back to Albuquerque, and got on line to visit my favorite Sunday morning site and find out who's speaking for me today... I love "Reagan's eyes were crooked / in the first-grade newsletter." This is a terrific poem, perfectly evoking one of those moments one never forgets and struggles a lifetime to explain exactly why. Thank you.
Comment by Dee Cohen on March 6, 2011 at 10:10am

This a touching poem about trying to reconcile the impossible. I love the subtle way you weave in the seasons and perhaps a lifelong suspicion about 'convenient metaphors.' The poem ends on such a careful note, with the child not wanting to look too far ahead. Nice.

Good luck with your reading. Dee

Comment by Ben Moffett on March 6, 2011 at 11:36am
So much conveyed in so few words. The line that most impresses me and impairs Josh is "Like I couldn't come up with a better question if I could raise the dead." I can't express how much I like this poem, perhaps because, I, too, have so many memories of isolated but mood-altering conversations. Thanks, Sari.
Comment by Rich Boucher on March 7, 2011 at 9:03am

This poem is surgery-careful. And shadowed. With solid details and imagery.

You chose well, DitchRider.

Comment by Dottie Webb on March 9, 2011 at 8:38am
Deft & wise--just what I needed this morning. Thanks DitchRider!  Thanks Sari!


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