It holds things in—
the bile, the bones,
the heart that floats,
the glands, the spleen.
It cages the pulse
and encases the dance
of corpuscles
and ligaments.
It holds what’s left
of this woman who’s wept,
and it does not scar
after runnels of tears.
It shows the years
that passed but does
not tell their secrets.
It holds the brain,
the gut, the tongue,
even the heaving
of race-run lungs,
and tries to be
a container for grief,
but it leaks, the skin,
and grief, it spills,
it rushes, stampedes,
unravels and floods,
unreels and keels
and erupts. It’s messy,
grief, and its twin sister
bliss, both of them
practiced escape artists.
It’s just doing
the task it knows
best, the skin,
dutifully trying
to hold it all in.
Here’s the smile line, which is very pleasing:
“and tries to be
a container for grief,
but it leaks,…
At first all the “it” troubled me, but by the time bliss joined in, I thought “it: worked fine.
One note, I think the poem would be better served to keep the weeping in the present, or so it seems. In the past it almost presents a missing storyline which the poem does not reveal and does not need.
“of this woman who weeps”
Mighty fine job it does, I must say!