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Posts Tagged ‘grief’




It felt so good to walk in the rain, 
to walk in the rain and not put 
on the raincoat I’d carried for 
over ten miles, to not put on 
the raincoat and let the rain 
soak into my sleeves, my 
shoes, my thoughts, my 
words, let rain soak in 
and realize with each 
squishy step each 
soggy word what 
a gift it is to not
always protect
myself from 
the world.

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Five Years Ago


 
 
Everyone else has gone to bed. 
A boy and his mother sit 
at the table in the house
they are renting for a few 
more days. They are familiar
the way my eyes are familiar. 
He sees a large cockroach 
climbing the wall, and when 
his mom squeals, he gets up, 
grabs it, throws it to the ground 
with youthful efficiency, 
then smiles at his mother, 
a tender smile that says, 
I like taking care of you, mom. 
But the boy is not happy. 
Soon he is crying. His eyes
are empty, colorless, black. 
Then it is only the mother 
sitting at the table, her 
empty hands full of fear,
uncertainty, lack. Why 
do I return to this moment,
knowing I cannot change
what happens the next day?
The closet. The gun. The choice.
I go back to slip my hands beneath
the mother’s empty hands, 
making for them a nest,
then sneak up the stairs to the boy
in his room in his bed in his pain,
and though I know it will not change 
a thing, I whisper in his ear, 
there is nothing you can do 
that will keep me from loving you.   

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Eco-Grief


 
 
My favorite alpine skinny dipping hole
a dry rock bed, an inverted monument
to drought—
 
as if I needed one more reminder
of how fragile it is, this world,
how parched our hearts
can become.
 
On the long hike home 
I swim in the seriousness
of what is not here,
 
remember how it felt to slip
into the snowmelt,
how my whole being shivered in elation, 
how the earth itself was so alive.

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 Keep Going


 
 
The sky is already past deep rose
verging on bruised plum by the time
we enter the cemetery gates 
and walk up the hill to the grave
where the ashes of the boy I love are buried.
I’ve never been here so late. 
Didn’t know the flag pole was lit
from below so it looks like a candle,
a tall slender flame, flaring up at the end 
of a long, dark canyon. Didn’t know
how the night itself makes a quiet cocoon
for meeting the dead past the limits
of light, a shadow so generous it makes 
equal room for sorrow and love to move in.
It’s not a voice, but it is, that says,
You can never lose me.
It’s not a touch, but it is, the invisible hand
that leads me back toward home.

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The language of grief is silence. 
—Maggie Anderson, “What Grief Does”
 
No one can translate the language of grief.
No verbs properly express how it collapses
past, present and future into a single tense
in which all becomes unswimmable wave
and at the same time immovable stone. 
No way to explain how in my grief lexicon 
the word cello can only be spoken in sob. 
How the single word shadow is somehow 
an entire prayer, equal parts praise and lament. 
How there are as many translations for loss 
as there are losses, and each phrase mutates 
into infinite local dialects spoken fluently only 
by the individual who grieves. So perhaps 
it is true, the language of grief is silence—
a mother tongue we are all gifted from birth. 
Though sometimes the language of grief is wail. 
Sometimes sniffle. Howl. Murmur. Hum. 
So different, this language, for everyone. 
And every moment, a new nuance unfolds. 
It’s a wonder we understand each other at all. 
Except we do. We share it, this language 
we can’t possibly translate and yet we know its
expressions by heart. For this, we offer each other 
our ears, knowing full well we can never 
wholly understand, knowing full well it matters 
that we listen anyway to gurgle, moan, silence, cry.

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Homeopathy


 
 
In the morning,
I light the candles.
With each light, 
I say the names.
Each name represents
a blessing that became 
a wound that became again
a blessing. This is how 
the heart makes of its losses 
a salve, touching again 
and again the dark
with its own dark, then
adding the smallest of lights 
until light is what a heart
does.

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It’s because to try to describe this feeling is 
to render it instantly dull, flat. 
It’s like when you see a rock on the bottom
of the river—all shimmering and bright—
but the moment you bring it to the air
to share it, what seemed precious 
becomes cloudy, mundane, a dumb lump,
the stuff of filler in a suburban parking lot.
 
And so you learn to be quiet, to let your syllables 
float away like dry leaves. What is heaviest 
stays. Does not wash away. Is polished by friction, years. 
Sometimes you meet others in the river. What shines 
shines. Together you stare, stunned by the damn beauty. 
Maybe you hold hands. Watch the light as it plays.

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Tonight I can’t see the shape of the moon
behind a cluster of clouds, but I see 
the bright radiance seeping through the edges 
and know the moon is there—
that is how it is when I speak out loud 
to my father and son. Hi Dad, I say. 
Hi Finn. I love you. I miss you. 
And aren’t you so proud of our girl?
As I walk through the dark, scent of rain
in each breath, I can’t hear the shape 
of their words in my ears. But I swear, 
I feel it, the shine. 

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Intention

In the garden, fill a hole with water,
eventually it will drain. Fill it with trash, 
with poor soil, nothing—or weeds—
will grow. But fill the hole with topsoil, 
intentional seed—is it any wonder 
something beautiful eventually thrives? 
Consider the hollow left when a loved one 
is gone. Nothing will ever be the same as it was. 
But if I protect the hollow, allow into it, 
more feeling, more love, more honest connection, 
if I sow there whatever goodness I grieve, 
then how deep the roots might go. How true,
the sapling, its leaves so verdant, 
so heartachingly new, so unashamedly green. 

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At the Table of Loss

As many chairs
as humans.
No way to refuse 
what we are served.
We choke on 
the courses.
How is it they
nourish us?
Beneath the table, 
we hold hands.

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