Heidi Slettedahl is an academic and a US-UK dual national who goes by a slightly different name professionally. In her other life, she is President of SUNY Brockport. She lives in western New York with her husband Allan Macpherson and their two unruly Springer Spaniels, Tilly and Rosie. Her most unusual talent is her ability to ride a unicycle. She does less of that now that she is over 50. Her website is here.
About Mo(u)rning Rituals, by Heidi Slettedahl
This collection of poetry explores the mourning that comes with infertility and other life changes while celebrating and uplifting the opportunities for love. Poems about imagined motherhood and family loss sit alongside poems that explore relationships that thrive across space, outlining the continuum we traverse as we choose to accept others into our lives.
This collection of poetry explores the mourning that comes with infertility and other life changes while celebrating and uplifting the opportunities for love. Poems about imagined motherhood and family loss sit alongside poems that explore relationships that thrive across space, outlining the continuum we traverse as we choose to accept others into our lives.
You can read more about Mo(u)rning Rituals on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection.
From Mo(u)rning Rituals
My Children
I never got to teach my children anything.
A mass of cells that multiplied
And then did not
No long division
No make believe
Except those two weeks, waiting.
Each time was harder
And every time I knew.
A mass of cells that multiplied
And then did not
No long division
No make believe
Except those two weeks, waiting.
Each time was harder
And every time I knew.
Venice
I rarely talk about my babies
Eight in all,
The loss too large for casual conversation.
Eight that I am sure of.
Who wants to know of clinics and injections, and odds
you’d never bet on
Until you do.
The number might be nine, if I include
The one who left me in Venice
With blood and chills.
At least I think he did, if he was there at all.
So hard to know for sure.
My friends love Venice,
Return to it year on year.
I prefer Verona.
A smaller city, prettier, less crowded.
Fewer memories of loss.
I rarely talk about my babies
Eight in all,
The loss too large for casual conversation.
Eight that I am sure of.
Who wants to know of clinics and injections, and odds
you’d never bet on
Until you do.
The number might be nine, if I include
The one who left me in Venice
With blood and chills.
At least I think he did, if he was there at all.
So hard to know for sure.
My friends love Venice,
Return to it year on year.
I prefer Verona.
A smaller city, prettier, less crowded.
Fewer memories of loss.
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