Jennifer Freya Helgeson
The Unmooring
The news runs a ticker tape of disasters—
drought maps, election counts, the rising cost of breath—
but the true crisis is the empty chair,
the clock that ticks into a new geometry of grief.
I try to scroll past the third partisan infographic on the feed,
but all I see is the smooth,
worn leather of the armchair where your hand left a permanent crease.
They talk about tipping points—the Arctic ice, the rate of inflation, the market's free solo—
and I think of the exact,
impossible balance of our mornings,
now lost forever to the shift.
We are all precarious now, aren't we?
The gig workers,
the climate refugees,
and ME.
The one left standing in the kitchen,
trying to measure out coffee beans for a single, inadequate cup.
The analyst uses words like vulnerability and systemic shock,
but you were simply gone.
No warning.
No buffer.
Just the sudden,
deep instability of being a we unspooled into a singular, fragile I.
I walk the block,
past the tent city,
past the boarded-up storefront,
and I know my small wound is just a scratch
in the larger, aching skin of the world.
Yet, it is the only world I know.
And every time the wind knocks a branch loose,
or the radio calls out another tragedy,
I feel the fault line split again,
not in the public street,
but right here…
where your hand used to rest.
drought maps, election counts, the rising cost of breath—
but the true crisis is the empty chair,
the clock that ticks into a new geometry of grief.
I try to scroll past the third partisan infographic on the feed,
but all I see is the smooth,
worn leather of the armchair where your hand left a permanent crease.
They talk about tipping points—the Arctic ice, the rate of inflation, the market's free solo—
and I think of the exact,
impossible balance of our mornings,
now lost forever to the shift.
We are all precarious now, aren't we?
The gig workers,
the climate refugees,
and ME.
The one left standing in the kitchen,
trying to measure out coffee beans for a single, inadequate cup.
The analyst uses words like vulnerability and systemic shock,
but you were simply gone.
No warning.
No buffer.
Just the sudden,
deep instability of being a we unspooled into a singular, fragile I.
I walk the block,
past the tent city,
past the boarded-up storefront,
and I know my small wound is just a scratch
in the larger, aching skin of the world.
Yet, it is the only world I know.
And every time the wind knocks a branch loose,
or the radio calls out another tragedy,
I feel the fault line split again,
not in the public street,
but right here…
where your hand used to rest.
Jennifer Freya Helgeson is an emerging poet based in Maryland, USA. Jennifer’s writing explores themes of memory, loss, nature, and human resilience. She holds a PhD in Environmental and Developmental Economics and has authored several peer-reviewed publications, co-edited textbooks, and published in several media outlets. She enjoys gardening, dancing, experimenting in the kitchen, and spending meaningful time with her dog, close friends, and family.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jennifer.helgeson.3.
Instagram: @jfhelgeson
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jennifer.helgeson.3.
Instagram: @jfhelgeson
