Rebecca G. Biber

Survivor Guilt With Suburban Vista
 
I have done nothing to deserve this life:
cinnamon body butter, a bathroom and a half,
late rising. While the unknown sleeps in our blood,
we sleep oblivious but wake with grinding teeth.

Cinnamon scented body, a bathroom and a half,
health, tailored waist, eyes that strangers compliment.
I sleep oblivious but wake with grinding teeth
while the air roils and oceans heat. We walk

for health, tailored waists, and strangers’ compliments
around the neighborhood, keeping our pulses up.
While the air roils and oceans heat, we walk:
my cousin says breast cancer was the second-worst thing

within the neighborhood, keeping our pulses up,
her voice, which hasn’t changed through sorrow, mild.
My cousin says breast cancer was the second-worst thing,
satirical and smooth as waxed wood. No bad genes

(her mild voice, which hasn’t changed through sorrow) but
both breasts scooped out anyway. The thinking
could be satirical and smooth as waxed wood: no bad genes.
The thing about losing my son, she says, is that

both breasts had to be scooped out anyway. The thing
is that nothing much matters, traffic, rude people.
The thing about losing my son, she says, is that
every day he’s still gone. Our family’s scarred.

Nothing much matters, traffic, rude people.
I have done little to deserve this life.
Every day he’s still gone, and our family scarred,
late-rising while the unknown sleeps in our blood. 

Rebecca G. Biber is a collaborative pianist and music teacher living in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her poetry has appeared in Lilith, Delmar, The Passionfruit Review, The Petigru Review, RE:AL, and the forthcoming Bop, Strut, and Dance Anthology. She was shortlisted for the Building Bridges Poetry Prize and the Northwind Writing Awards. Her first book of poems, Technical Solace, was published in 2017 by Fifth Avenue Press. She holds BM and MM degrees from the University of Michigan School of Music and an MFA in creative writing from Queens University of Charlotte.