My favorite oncology nurse
practices a ritual
each time a patient dies,
selecting a song to
remind her of
the one she has cared for,
attaching memory to
melody on cue

When cancer kills
my favorite aunt one week
after diagnosis,
my questions do not include
what her song would be;
only one would do, an anthem
arising from memory of this
redneck woman

Way back when
I knew no oncology nurses
and nothing about the
complexities of grief,
I heard that homage
to honkytonk femininity,
saw my aunt at the center
of its celebration

She was here
for the party and
here for the fight, knew
when to work hard and
how to play harder,
louder and larger than life,
she left no doubt
she was here

Wilson kept rolling, brash
and unabashed, fallen
from my favor; I stopped
listening long ago, just as
I stopped visiting the aunt
whose circle of care
could not encompass
my queer life

​

Still, I am singing
along with Wilson today
because still,
the hits keep coming
and in this wild and precarious
life, grief often
forgets to follow
its cues

​Jamez Terry is a queer and trans poet, novelist, zinester, parent, and rabblerouser. His poetry has been published in many places, including the new chapbook Grief Is Not Shelf Stable from kith books. His debut novel, See You in the Mail, is forthcoming from Generous Press. Jamez lives in Alaska with his partner, two kids, and many fishes.