Lisa Bain
LISA BAIN
Lisa Bain became a young widow in 2016 after losing her
husband to cancer. She quickly learned we live in a grief-
phobic society that isolates the grieving even further. The
Idaho-based author took off on a (nearly) two-year solo trip
around the globe to work through the grief process and found
her voice along the way. With both humor and heartbreak,
she incorporates grief and bereavement issues into her
keynotes, blog, poetry (featured in Ireland-based Poethead),
and her debut novel, Heart of a Kingdom (The Light Network,
2019).
Her poems are snapshots of love, death, and the journey of
starting over. Sometimes they rhyme. For more, visit:
TheRealLisaBain.com or on Instagram @LisaBainWrites. For
all other muggle and magic shenanigans across social media,
check out @TheRealLisaBain.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
2
Butterflies
I’m fully submerged; a blanket of bubbles pulled up to my
lazy smile. Belting out Butterfly, off-key and at the top of my
lungs, is justified since I have this wing to myself, and it’s
only late afternoon.
I didn’t hear you until you were already in my room. I’d
forgotten to lock the door.
Jumping up, I slosh water and bubbles all over the marble
tile. Crazy Town is still singing in my airpods.
The look on your face is a blend of “I’m gonna get fired” and
“best Friday ever.” You stammer your bit about the
complimentary bottle of wine from hotel management in
your limited English. I’m sure it’s flawless when you don’t
have a bubble covered American standing in a pool of water.
When I finally regain my senses and reach for a towel, you
hastily turn and leave. I can feel you grinning as my cheeks
burn, and I lock the door.
Lisa Bain
3
Butterflies Part 2
It’s the off-season in Dubrovnik, which is why I splurge on
the five-star resort. The deal is too good to pass up. It’s also
why the smaller crew is working every shift.
I walk into breakfast alone to be greeted with the smell of
fresh coffee and American-style bacon. I haven’t seen
American-style bacon since I left home six months ago. For a
split second, it makes me hungry and nostalgic.
And then I notice the heads turn, and every one of your
colleagues is suddenly grinning like a schoolboy.
Before I know it, you appear at my table, still wearing that
grin I gave you yesterday You’re now my waiter. Great. I
want the floor to swallow me up. But not until after I’ve had
some coffee.
And bacon.
The soundtrack to my departure is a burst of laughter from
the kitchen. I can’t help but join in as my cheeks burn once
again.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
4
Believer
Dedicated to Ryan Wallace, The Opera Guy of Belfast
I await your arrival with eager anticipation. My mind
wanders back to that dreich day I first heard you singing in
Belfast. You, so dapper, and your angelic voice delivering
messages from heaven, right there in the middle of
Cornmarket.
Has it really been three years?
Today, as you begin to sing my favorite song, Bocelli’s
version of Fall On Me, the hazel eyes smiling back at me
suddenly belong to another. Just like the first time we met.
They say angels walk among us. You make me a willing
believer.
Lisa Bain
5
Zoom Life
Together in our isolation,
we share our beauty.
In our separate closets of night,
we stitch together light and color.
Creating life;
sending it out over the ether
to weave us together
in a patchwork cocoon of the brightest love.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
6
Stirling Silver
It’s late morning on a weekday, and the café isn’t full. But
when you see me dining alone, you choose the table across
from me, situating yourself so we’re facing each other. I
have a sudden image of us as Victorians at a ten-foot table,
and a giggle sneaks out. I accept the initial greeting you lob
over the space between us.
I mentally squeal when you call me lassie in that soft brogue
and check it off my list of Scottish experiences. It feels
fatherly. You kind of remind me of my dad, and I resist the
urge to hug you.
You listen so intently when I share my travel stories. You’re
easy to talk to, and when you ask me why I’m on my own, I
can’t hold the words back. My recent widowhood spills out
over my lips against my will.
Your kindness spares me the look of pity I’ve come to
despise. And my heart can tell you know it all too well. It’s
why we’re both dining alone.
Lisa Bain
7
Stirling Silver Part II
Dedicated to Richard McDonald, the piper of Stirling Castle
We talk about music, something we both love in a way only
the bereaved know. I take notes and write down all your
suggestions. You invite me to hear you play the bagpipes at
Stirling Castle tomorrow afternoon, but I am booked on the
early train to Oban. I suddenly want to change my plans so I
can spend more time with you.
And then you burst into song, right there in the middle of
Our Place Café. You serenade me with Wild Mountain
Thyme, reminding me to write down the Joan Baez version
in my fancy phone. I feel other patrons looking at us, but I
only see you.
The smile on your face mirrors the one in my heart. You
allow me to take your photo, provided I email it to your son.
He helps you with your computer.
The rough wool tweed of your coat scratches my cheek as I
hug you goodbye. I dash out the door before you see the tear
escape my eye.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
8
Bilingual Maybes
you did a double take when you caught me staring
but held my blushing gaze
no spoken words exchanged
in your smile, we explore the future
before time resumes its normal course
and releases us from a bold, bilingual maybe
Lisa Bain
9
Music Lovers
I walk into the pub late and you’re already on stage.
You begin to sing that song; the one you put on the playlist
you made for me. You won’t make eye contact, but I feel you
watching me as I order my drink.
When you sing the last word, your mouth turns up at the
corners and you finally look at me. You catch me running
my fingertips over my bruised lips at the memory of your
kisses and I blush as you fail to control the desire on your
face.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
10
Hurricane Ophelia
The wind screams through the chimney as Ophelia settles in
over Killarney. You are my only friend here. Or were, until
we had a fight two days ago. That should have been the end
of it. But you know I’m here alone, and your better nature
kicks in.
You brave the hurricane to show up at my door, peace
offering in hand. I’m not especially nice about it, but the
wind carries my harsh words away and we sit in awkward
silence in the front room. I look over the rim of my whiskey
glass at you in silence. You fidget like a naughty student
sent to the principal’s office but meet the storm swirling in
my eyes.
When the wind and rain die down, we walk arm-in-arm into
town. The storm blew away the anger and memories of why
we fought. You laugh at me as I try my first Guinness. I roll
my eyes as you complain (again) about my expensive
whiskey taste. We laugh and dance and drink it all away.
The music sets the night ablaze and the smoke from a turf
fire hitches a ride home in my hair.
Lisa Bain
11
Baggage (v. 2)
Heaving my suitcase onto the bed
I drop it on the floor instead,
Oops, forgot it’s full of laments for my dead.
Why did I pack the weight of grief and fear
when all I want to do is be light and clear?
Running away and starting over is my plan
So why did I decide to bring along a dead man?
I silently berate myself, forcing tears away
Someday I’ll acknowledge what it took to make it to this
day.
But for now, unzipping my bag, I dump the contents on the
floor
I’m done with this.
I refuse to carry deadweight with me anymore.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
12
Exposed
After checking my seatbelt for the seventh time, I look
around to distract myself from my usual take-off jitters.
Your bare ankle catches my attention from across the aisle. I
avert my gaze as I wonder why I feel my face flush in
embarrassment.
My eyes can’t stay away from the naked skin between your
trouser hem and shoe. So bizarrely intimate.
A wave of vulnerability crashes over my heart as a random
memory of my hand, resting sleepily on the warm skin of
another ankle, surfaces. I shake it off, returning to you and
cruising altitude.
As small as this plane is, I could reach across the aisle and
touch it. I want to. Instead, I hold my drink with both hands,
looking out the window at the clouds below as my palms
daydream about the feel of your skin and memories melt
into maybes.
Lisa Bain
13
Ancient Echoes
I join my sisters in a circle around this old cold henge.
The druid in our midst calls forth ancient echoes from the
towering stones,
rooting us deep in the Earth and across time.
Hands clasped, electric, in this ancient prayer of light,
the hair on the back of my neck stands
and I weep as the sun sets fire to night.
Perspective to Pen: An Anthology
14
Home Again
I secure the coveted perch next to the window. Closing my
eyes, I bask in the warmth of the sun on my face. My brain
generously overlays a beach track, and the sounds of
lapping waves replace the hustle and bustle of the crowded
airport.
Childhood memories leap to fill in the gaps and I take flight.
Warm, powdery, sand slowly squishes between my toes as I
walk along the liminal edge. My efforts to avoid stepping on
the LEGO-sharp pinecones are distracted by the view of Na
Mokulua and the sun glinting off the too blue to be true
water. I breathe deep the elixir of coconut oil, salty air, and
barbecue. The lazy breeze picks up the lilting sing-song
melody of the islands, wrapping me in the magic of home.
At least until final boarding call for the giant bird taking me
even further away.
Lisa Bain
15
Grounded
when all movement stops and forced stillness begins
there’s nowhere for a nomad to go but within
no boarding pass needed, no suitcase to check
no passport, no visa, no vaccine requirement
solitude prepared me for this dive in the shadows
who i’ll emerge, only the universe knows
this wasn’t my choice, but i’m done running away
what better use is there for a quarantine day