DOROTHY LOWAKUTUK

by Terri Kirby Erickson 

 

 

Reteti Elephant Sanctuary in Northern Kenya was established to rescue and release orphaned and abandoned elephant calves. It was featured recently by the AP and on PBS.

 

 

They follow her or she follows them, the babies

of Reteti. Swinging their miniature trunks, they 

navigate the steep and dusty terrain not far from 

the elephant sanctuary—all the while listening 

for her voice and the voices of other keepers. 

These calves are like little children let loose 

in the playground, nowhere near ready to be

released in the wild. Most carry the memory 

of a mother’s disappearance, some brutally so. 

Others less dramatic. But a lost mother, how-

ever it occurs, is no small thing. When I found

my mother dying beneath her favorite azalea 

bush, I sank to my knees crying, Mommy, what 

happened? and I was no baby. Nothing prepares 

us for losing our mothers, the loneliness of grief. 

But Dorothy Lowakutuk learned the language 

of elephants. She knows which of them is Sera,

Long’uro, or Sarara—how they play and walk 

and sleep. She teaches them to roll in the dust to 

keep their skin cool, find plants that are safe to

eat. Humble, yet as regal as a queen, Dorothy 

Lowakutuk’s face is radiant as the African sun, 

this kind woman and all the rest at Reteti who

talk softly, feed and sing to the children of lost 

mothers. Blessed be—blessed be their names.

 

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight full-length collections of poetry, including The Light that Follows Us Home (Autumn, 2026, Press 53). Her work has been widely published and has won numerous awards, including the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize, International Book Award for Poetry, and the Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize. She lives in North Carolina, USA.

LETTER FROM A POET TO AI

by Terri Kirby Erickson 

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

What do you know of heartache?

How it feels to watch your father die 

gasping for air like a fish in a bucket, 

or to find your comatose mother in her 

front yard, dying alone in the dirt? 

My brother bled to death in front 

of my eyes when he was twenty. Can 

you even imagine it? Of course, you 

can’t. You have no imagination, no 

feelings, only data, data, data that you 

spit out like pits from fruit you’ve

never tasted. And what about the good 

stuff? That first kiss from a guy who 

means it? Holding your newborn baby 

in your arms, astonished by how much 

love one person can bear? Have you 

strolled down the Champs-Élysées in 

the rain? Laughed at a joke or made 

love by an open window to the sound

of Italian doves? Tasted a chocolate 

milkshake or pumpkin risotto? Have 

you thrown a softball or climbed a tree? 

Ridden a Merry-Go-Round or a bicycle, 

seen Mick Jagger strut like a rooster 

across a stage or watched the Rockettes

kick their way to Christmas? So you can

write a semblance of a poem or a story

or a novel, so what? Your creations are 

rickety scaffolding, Hollywood sets that 

will never be the Swiss Alps or even

a human home, which is better, even if it 

sucks, than anyplace you could generate 

because you are nothing but a vending 

machine, AI—stocked with empty words.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight full-length collections of poetry, including The Light that Follows Us Home (Autumn, 2026, Press 53). Her work has been widely published and has won numerous awards, including the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize, International Book Award for Poetry, and the Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize. She lives in North Carolina, USA.

JANE

by Terri Kirby Erickson

“Each one of us matters, has a role to play, and makes a difference.”  — Jane Goodall, The Book of Hope (2021)

 

Jane Goodall traveled alone in Gombe, save for the man who 

filmed a young Englishwoman slipping into the African land-

scape as easily as a ray of light between the sparse canopy of 

 

an acacia tree. Clad in a khaki shirt and shorts, she could have

been Eve exiled from the Garden of Eden, aware but uncaring 

of venomous snakes that slithered around her, the bitter taste 

 

of forbidden fruit, all but forgotten. Doing what she was meant 

to do, Jane believed nothing could harm her (as she often said)

and nothing did as she moved through grasslands, woodlands,

 

steep valleys, and rocky slopes, crossing streams and climbing 

trees while trying to find the chimps. Instead, she saw brightly-

colored birds and butterflies, bushbucks and other wildlife as 

 

she searched, month after month with no chimpanzees in sight. 

But finally, her patience was repaid by a male dubbed David 

Greybeard. And after him there were others, Goliath, Flo, and 

 

Fifi, defying scientists who claimed chimps were incapable of 

empathy, happiness, or grief, labeled them by numbers instead 

of names. But let’s not travel just yet, to what Jane would learn 

 

and what good she would do in the future, this kind and gentle 

woman, as brave as anyone ever born. You have only to see her 

lovely face on film as David, rather than running away, ignores 

 

her presence while eating figs—to know this moment was the 

apex of her young life, a dream that began with a toy monkey 

her father gave her instead of a bear. For now, I’d rather think 

 

of Jane Goodall sitting still as a hill or a stone while watching 

the chimps—her expression of joy and wonder akin to Eve’s 

if she’d been welcomed back to Paradise and at last, forgiven.

 

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven full-length collections of poetry, including Night Talks: New & Selected Poems (Press 53), which was a finalist for (general) poetry in the International Book Awards and the Best Book Awards. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of literary journals, anthologies, magazines, and newspapers, including “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, JAMA, ONE ART, Poetry Foundation, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many more. Among her numerous awards are the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Nautilus Silver Book Award, Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize, and the Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize. She lives in North Carolina.

THREE CROWS AT DAVID GILMOUR’S LAST CONCERT ON HIS 2024 WORLD TOUR

by Terri Kirby Erickson

Sitting in front of us at David Gilmour’s Sunday night

show at Madison Square Garden, is a family of three—

mother, father, and teenage son. I have never seen hair 

so glossy and black, as if they are enchanted crows that 

will fly out of the stadium once the concert is over and 

the spell is broken. But for now, mother and son look 

like a painting called Madonna and Child, so close they 

are, so intricately bonded. He keeps laying his cheek 

against her shoulder, one dark head against another—

while his father gyrates and headbangs in his seat, fully

immersed in his experience of the incredible music, the 

multicolor lights. There is a tenderness to their boy, an 

innocence, as if he is a beloved only child not yet ready 

to leave the nest or mingle with other kids his age who 

would, by now, have toughened him up or damaged him 

in ways he cannot imagine. His parents will keep him

safe from anything that can cause him harm, or so they 

may believe. But my parents lost their only son when 

he was a few years older. I can still recall my father’s 

stoic façade, my mother’s decades of grief from which 

she could not be saved nor solaced. Meanwhile, David 

Gilmour goes on singing and playing his guitar while 

the boy splays his fine-boned fingers like talons on his 

mother’s arm, and his father belts those haunting lyrics 

like he wrote them—as if his body was never covered in 

feathers, his mouth an open beak crying caw, caw, caw.

 

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, Rattle, The SUN, and numerous other publications. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, International Book Award for Poetry, and the Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize among many others. She lives in North Carolina, USA.

HELENE

by Terri Kirby Erickson

Cadaver dogs and search crews trudged through knee-deep muck and debris in the mountains of western North Carolina on Tuesday looking for more victims ofHurricane Helene days after the storm carved a deadly and destructive path through the Southeast. —AP, October 1, 2024

He found his wife’s body draped over

a limb, her skirt flapping in the wind

 

like a bedsheet pinned to a line, her

long hair hanging like Spanish moss.

 

He dropped to his knees in the mud,

moaning like a bear caught in a steel

 

trap, ready to gnaw off its leg to stop 

the pain. He didn’t care, anymore,

 

about their splintered house floating 

like matchsticks down the river, never

 

felt the dog’s rough tongue trying to 

lick the agony from his face. Still, he

 

could not make himself believe what 

he was seeing—pictured her, instead, 

 

walking down the aisle with flowers 

tumbling from her hands. He vaguely

recalled saying to her, Till death do us 

part, but it tasted like gibberish in his 

 

mouth, words with no meaning about 

a time he was sure would never come.

Author's Note: My poem, ‘Helene,’ is an imagined narrative prompted by reading and hearing about the devastating destruction and loss of life in western North Carolina (my beloved home state) that occurred as a result of Hurricane Helene. I also drew upon my own experiences with trauma, grief, and sudden loss while writing this poem.

 

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, Rattle, The SUN, and numerous other publications. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, International Book Award for Poetry, and the Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize among many others. She lives in North Carolina, USA.

THE BOARD SPEAKS TO AN ASSEMBLY OF FIFTH-GRADE GIRLS

by Terri Kirby Erickson 

Sunday school at a Baptist church in Kentucky, 1946 

The Board has determined that fifth grade,
which may be too late for some, is the most
optimal time to inform girls that post-birth
females are not fully autonomous human 
beings. No adverse circumstances or plans
or dreams or medical emergencies trump 
your legal and moral responsibility to give 
birth should any male, whether by force or 
consent, plant his seed in the fertile ground 
of a uterus that becomes, immediately upon
conception, the sole property of The State. 
The Board, comprised of five men and two 
wholly compliant women, strives to remain 
sympathetic to how hard it must be for you 
to accept this news, having been so revered 
before birth and deceived into believing you 
have the same rights and post-delivery value 
as boys and men. Let us assure you today, 
that you do not. Indeed, should you become 
pregnant and experience a life-threatening 
situation, the continuation of a fetal heart-
beat is all that matters. Furthermore, there 
are many government agencies dedicated to 
ensuring that, under penalty of death or life 
in prison for all involved, no pregnancy is
unlawfully terminated. No questions? Then 
you are, as will often be the case, dismissed.

 
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry, including A Sun Inside My Chest (Press 53), winner of an International Book Award for Poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, JAMA,Poet’s Market, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS), The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Third Wednesday, and many more. Other awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. 

WINTER MORNING

by Terri Kirby Erickson

Beyond the snow-laden hill and ice-covered

field, ancient oaks are raising their bare limbs

toward a sky marbled with clouds. Gilded by

a sun we cannot yet see, they look fixed to the

firmament, their shifting so subtle it seems as

if these clouds might never move again, as if

time itself has stopped and winter has come

to stay. I would not mind it. It is cozy here by

the fire, watching the day begin through panes

of glass, my hair busily turning white, my body

grateful for its rest. I never thought of growing

older, imagined I would look and feel the same

forever. But the decades fly by, and now winter

seems to suit me best. There is nothing I need

to do and no place to be. A good book is open

on my lap, and my husband of thirty years is

just up the stairs. I can see the little boy next

door already sledding with his mother. He will

remember always how it felt to zoom down the

steep bank with the person he loves best in all

the world—both laughing, faces red from the

cold. Meanwhile, oaks that will never again be

saplings, hold within themselves the memory

of spring. And the winter sky that was, only

moments ago, filled with gilded clouds, has at

last allowed them to drift ever so slowly away.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry, including A Sun Inside My Chest (Press 53), winner of the 2021 International Book Award for Poetry. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, including "American Life in Poetry," Atlanta Review, ONE ART, Poet’s Market, The Broad River Review, The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Sport Literate, Verse Daily. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. She lives in North Carolina.

IDA

by Terri Kirby Erickson

Floodwater surrounds a house on Sept. 01, 2021 in Jean Lafitte, Louisiana. (Brandon Bell/Getty Images via NPR)

In South Louisiana, every single thing we do is jazz or zydeco.

—Lauren Daigle

 

An old woman sits on her front porch in Jefferson

Parish, smoking a Kool and watching a copperhead

swim past her house. She is wearing her favorite pink

housecoat with the torn pocket, and hasn’t so much

as combed her hair in two days. Three feet above the

water line, she is safe from drowning and unwilling

to be rescued by a neighbor boy who keeps motoring

by in his daddy’s fishing boat and won’t take no for

an answer. She was making a roux when the power

went out, and left the mess right where it sat since it

was clear Ida had no intention of leaving Louisiana

without making a big fuss. BeauSoleil was playing

Zydeco Gris-Gris on the radio before the room went

silent, and that song keeps rattling around her head

while a red, high-heeled shoe lodges against a limb

rising from the torrent, its branches like the fingers

of an arthritic hand. Laughing out loud, she blows

a few puffs of smoke into the muggy air, recalling

a time when most men would have paid cash to see

Rosaline Mayeaux in red stilettos and nothing else.

She squints in the bright sunshine as that stubborn

boy steers the same old fishing boat up to her porch

for what she hopes will be his final run, and hollers

like she is deaf, “You about ready to hit the road,

Miz Mayeaux?” which says it all when it comes to

how much brain power he has going for him, since

no roads are visible after Hurricane Ida turned their

hometown of Jean Lafitte into a bowl of hot soup.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six full-length collections of poetry, including A Sun Inside My Chest (Press 53), winner of the 2021 International Book Award for Poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope, The Sixty-Four: Best Poets of 2019, The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Verse Daily, and numerous others. A former resident of Rapides Parish, she has lived most of her life in her home state of North Carolina.

THE DOCTOR WHO DIES OF THE CORONAVIRUS AFTER THE HOSPITAL RUNS OUT OF GLOVES

by Terri Kirby Erickson

Alameda Health System nurses, doctors, and workers protest the lack of personal protective equipment available in Oakland, California, on March 26, 2020. Justin Sullivan/Getty Images via Vox

A doctor in Italy who described his concerns in a recent television interview about how the shortages of medical supplies meant he had to treat patients with coronavirus without wearing gloves, has died from the illness. Marcello Natali, 57, from Codogno, in the northern province of Lombardy, had also sounded the alarm over the number of doctors who were getting infected, during an interview with Euronews before he tested positive. He told the channel bluntly that he was not able to work with gloves because "they have run out." —Newsweek, March 19, 2020


There is no linear time in the hereafter. Angels do every-
thing at once. They see the last pair of latex gloves drop
to a hospital floor in slow motion, the look of fear on the
face of the gloveless doctor who, in the blink of a human
eye, goes on caring for patients. They can watch people
being brave (since fear is the birthplace of bravery) and
the people who are sick, some of them dying. But those
who pass away during the doctor’s glove-free hours feel
the touch of warm skin on his or her forehead when they
take their final breaths. This is the unselfish mercy that
humans are capable of, which makes the angels marvel.
Divine creatures respect mortality and all that it entails.
And from every angel’s non-linear, eternal perspective,
a doctor can do his job and at the exact same time, enter
the great mystery of his own dying. Angels may ooh and
ahh over this lone human being’s merciful acts as well as
mercy shown around the world, and still catch his soul the
instant it leaves his body. One whispers words of solace.
Yet another sings the doctor’s favorite aria, Puccini’s “O
Mio Babbino Caro,” as they carry him to the place where
there is no grief or sorrow—and no need for gloves at all.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of five full-length collections of poetry, including Becoming the Blue Heron (Press 53). Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Poet’s Market, The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many more. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. She lives in North Carolina.