Global Haiku • Spring 2022
Dr. Randy Brooks

Honeysuckle Grief:
A Life in Haiku

by
Sydney Sinks

As I reflect on my past four years of college, I’m coming to terms with who this new person is, who I’ve become. Haiku has served a chance to engage with this person and make sense of how I’ve grown and where I’m going next. My haiku capture little moments and powerful experiences, the things that have come to haunt and fascinate me. Whether it’s a haiku about bad coffee and good conversation, or the cats I love, or the new beginnings I’m discovering as spring settles around us—all of these haiku reveal who I am, line by line. People are made up of particulars. As a journalist, I’m trained to look for these small details; haiku encourages the same appreciation. There is power in this. In a world that is so fast-paced, goal-oriented, and often apathetic, the ability to slow down and truly feel life is a strength. It’s a talent I’m still building, and I’m thankful for the ways in which my experience of haiku has helped me to do this. Every haiku in this book has been lovingly crafted. I hope you find some significance in these pages, too.

in your living room
splitting a cigarette
we talk about what’s next

tarot cards on the coffee table
her quick glance
who are we today?

New Years drunk on your couch
my first time without 
resolutions

grandfather clock 
counts to twelve
dishes in soapy water

cross-legged in the living room
Elliott Smith 
on your acoustic guitar  

tomorrow will come
until then
our hands across the table

my ribs poke into
the mattress     maple leaves 
as big as my palm

teething black kitten
wrapped around my wrist
a new beginning

coffee shop date
people with their lattes and manuscripts
listening

burnt coffee
we start our morning
with forgiveness

clutching styrofoam coffee cups
we talk shit about
her dumbass boyfriend

don’t say dyke in Florida
remember to whisper your kisses half-asleep so no one can hear you
the hot-teared shame of being a child and needing a bandaid for a scraped knee
or holding her hand at the convenience store 
two men burned to death in their suburbia two-story
you read horror in the newspaper you steal from the neighbor’s porch
your mother asks if you can keep yourself a secret for now
you don’t say dyke in Florida or at home and only sometimes in your bedroom
when it crashes down into legislation you don’t say anything at all

my reflection slipping
through my fingers
waterfall baptism

late walk home
stars dripping
onto my shoulders

blueberry wine in a mug
you finally tell me about 
her 

morning coffee
we name pain
we both know

crock-pot recipe
shivering 
in front of the stove

egg yolk globe
spinning
in a chipped bowl

Christmas cards 
photos spill out of envelopes;
another year on the faces

coffee at your table 
on Christmas morning:
reverence 

MY TURN

In the air-conditioned summertime, I curl into the couch and watch my grandfather nod off to sleep. The news drones in the background with stories about crises and global pain, but my hurt is a dull pounding somewhere far away in my chest, personal and universal, as his glasses slip farther down his nose. I spend every Thursday morning with him, brewing cups of coffee and talking about life, all normal, until suddenly he asks a question that leaves me breathless. He asks after people who are long dead. Have you talked to Mom? How’s Skip doing? He asks me the details of a life that belongs to some other relative, not me. How long are you in town for? Do you like commuting to St. Louis? The worst is when he misses. He misses always, a constant ache, grief he doesn’t remember he owns. We should visit Dick and Cynthia; it’s been too long. I would be cruel to tell him the truth, that we buried them two years ago. Instead, I reassure or redirect, like the websites say to do. I toss a lot of questions back to him. I gulp pale milky coffee and gently beg him to tell me about his life. There’s urgency buzzing on these slow summer days, a metronome only I can feel tilting back and forth. Meanwhile my phone buzzes with a text from my mom and I promise her we’re doing fine. We are. Everything is fine. He sleeps slumped in his favorite brown cardigan buttoned up over a twenty-year-old t-shirt. I try to memorize him and this room. Remember when I was small enough for him to lift me and he would, grab me in a squealing hug and tuck me onto his lap with a picture book, remember when we’d go for walks or draw pictures or when he protected me instead of the other way around. I watch the trees out the window, how the branches sway lazy in the breeze. Nothing that’s killing me matters at all. All I’m cupping in my palms is this Thursday morning, holding it greedy against me, sipping from it.

crises on the front page
I read you
our horoscopes

starry night cornfield
a dog’s bark
relief 

holding your hand
greedy raccoons live
in my chest

counting green buds 
and clean days
we’re all starting over

bedroom curtain flutters
your spring breeze
perfume

heavy blue clouds
the sky and I 
exhale

a peach so ripe 
i peel it with my fingernails—    
lightning cracks outside

onion grass
I know you with
my eyes closed  

honeysuckle grief
you’re still 
everywhere