Poem: On Lisa Stansfield Being A Terrible Mother

A poem about a strange kind of empathy

She looked everywhere — apparently.
Then crafted her PTSD into one hell

of a hooky song. All I’m saying is, did
anyone check on her? What was the

duty of care? She was very candid.
Did we truly respect that? It doesn’t

feel like it. We just dined out on her
vulnerability. Then pushed the chairs

back; had a dance. I’ve convinced
myself: A whole new way of hearing

the song. My eyes fill with tears as
she moves us to dance. My heart

heavy with her loss, and that frantic,
desperate travel schedule she kept.