Posts Tagged ‘eraser’


Grief arrives with an eraser—
not the cute pink kind
at the end of a pencil,
more like the big gray kind
with the fat felt strips
we used on chalk boards—
the kind that didn’t really
get rid of what was there,
just smeared it around
until it was unrecognizable,
the ghost of what was written
still haunting the board.
At first I thought
what was being erased
was the one who was gone.
Then I realized
what’s being erased is me—
whatever I think I know
about love, about life,
about death.
This erasure is nothing
I would have asked for.
But now, lines blurring,
what is infinite in me begins
to recognize itself,
and it’s beautiful—
this spaciousness
I once thought
meant the end.

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