In December of 2016, I published my first book: singing my mother down: poems of grief, love, and healing. The book is designed to help anyone who has lost a loved one navigate their grief, by sharing a little of my own journey, and reminding readers that grief doesn't always have to be experienced alone.
Because I published the book myself, I was able to keep the cost of a physical copy low: it's only $9.15 on Amazon. (In honor of my mother; her birthday was September 15th.) I also have signed copies for sale ($10) on etsy and on my partner's site.
The best way to support my work is to buy copies of my book, or even become one of my Patreon supporters -- that gets you copies of every book I publish in the future, and some other neat rewards, too.
But I don't want anyone to slip through the cracks here. The poems I write are intended for everyone, not just those who can afford to pay for them. If you would like a digital copy of singing my mother down, there are two ways to get it. First; just ask. Send me an email and let me know that you'd like to read a digital copy of the book. I'll email it back to you. Second; donate any amount via Paypal and let me know in the note that you'd like a copy.
If the only support you can offer is to read my poems, I appreciate it immensely! I mean for these words to be shared. Sign up for Intravenous Poems, and share the poems I send out each month with your friends and loved ones.
Whether you've bought a copy via Amazon, Patreon, etsy, Michelle's website, or whether you've read a digital copy, there is one more thing you can do to support me. This is a big one: leave me a review on Amazon. Share your reaction to the book there. As much as I love getting your feedback myself, sharing it with an Amazon review will help other people find the book, and read it, and help the love it contains spread as far as possible around the world.
For now, since you've read this far, here's a poem. Just for you. Right here:
If you would speak with me
of how to move through sadness
let me take my glasses off.
When I take them off
it is so I can see more clearly. Not
with my eyes, not exactly.
Seeing is so much more about the heart
that glasses get in the way, sometimes.
They got in the way the day
when my then-husband and I argued
loudly, about something I've forgotten.
I was sad, that day. I had
been taking care of my mother for three months
while she struggled with cancer,
incurable, no longer in remission.
We argued, I think, because
he didn't know I was sad.
Maybe he should have known.
Maybe I should have told him.
But such should-have-dones
have no weight, for me. Not now.
No, to really remember
the way I still can sidestep my own deepest needs,
I need a more physical reminder.
You had started to tell me something
that sounded important to you.
Now, I have taken my glasses off.
I am listening with my heart
as well as my ears.
Copyright Elyria Little 2015