Grief

 

It is easier to write a poem than to grieve,
much easier to Google words to rhyme with grief,
easier to create a clever line of toe-curling assonance.
Even when it lands alone, curled up in a dark corner,
a poem, like the cat, easily rises with new power
to make what is visible to ordinary people invisible.
But grief,
it hates the music,
shudders in the sunlight,
wrings out your soul-case,
provides you with sleepless nights,
leaves the tongue parched with tears
saltier than salt-fish, with sweaty armpits,
while worms crawl underneath your fingertips. 

And then the pastor’s words, “Death, where is your sting?” 
bring bile into your mouth and have no meaning.

April 13-July 19, 2020

Last Modified: July 28, 2020