Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘grief’


 
 
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.

Read Full Post »

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. 

Read Full Post »

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. 

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

In every moment, there is a car 
 and an infinite hill and the chance 
  you will roll down that hill. With no brakes.
   Backwards. When grief first yanked me
    into its old beater, I was too stunned
     to try to stop gravity from doing what 
      gravity does. Mostly, these days, 
I forget what can happen. Mostly, 
 there’s a rope attached to the car
  that keeps it from careening, a rope 
   made of friendship, of family, 
    of trust in the self that has grown over time. 
     The rope is a lovely illusion.
      Sometimes I fool myself into believing
       that the stability I feel is because 
the brakes are fixed and I’ve become 
 better at parking, even in the steepest zones. 
  I fool myself into thinking the rope can’t be cut.  
   That is why, perhaps, it’s so surprising
    when I feel the lurch, my stomach rising
     into my chest. So surprising to see loss 
      is sitting in the driver’s seat looking  
       at me with its uncompromising gaze
        as if to say, No, sweetheart, 
 that seatbelt won’t do you any good. 
 If you pray, now’s a good time for that—
  but don’t bother to pray for the car 
   to stop. Pray to be able to laugh 
    as we speed down the hill. 
     Pray that as the world blurs by,
      while terror squeezes your throat
       what is most alive in you also notices 
        how radiant the sunset, how briefly 
it shines, that tender pink. 

Read Full Post »


 
after “Flower in a Field” by Dario Cvencek
 
A mother is still a mother
even in an empty house, 
even when there’s not a child
hanging on her hip or leg, 
she’s still a mother even when 
the floors are clean, devoid  
of Legos and Monopoly houses. 
Even when silence 
fills the spaces where once
rang laughter, crying, singing,
even when the cake stays exactly
where she left it in the fridge, 
when her car doesn’t leave the drive
for days because no one needs 
to be taken to school or to dance. 
Even then, she’s a mother,
when the phone doesn’t ring, 
when her child can no longer
walk in the room, can’t say hello,
can’t even breathe, even then, 
even then when there is no damn way 
she can care for her child, that sad
fact does not change the fact
that she’s a mother, just as a tree 
in the field is no less tree when the saplings 
that came from its seeds are cut down, 
just as a happy memory might still 
make you happy even if it arrives
amongst tears. She is no less a mother
when the only thing that fills her arms 
is tenderness for other mothers with 
empty arms, when instead of holding
anyone, she lets herself be held. 
 

Read Full Post »

Still


 
 
Over four years after his death,
I still sleep with Skinny Puppy, the lovey 
my boy treasured and slept with each night, 
even into high school. Flat with no stuffing, 
a soft square body with a small round head.
Every night in the dark, I tuck its worn,
brown fabric beneath my left arm, 
let it nestle up against my heart. 
Every morning, it’s still there.
I make it into the bed. I feel no shame 
in wanting its slight weight against me. 
Such simple comfort. 
Not that I need an object for him to be with me.
I carry him inside. Close as breath. 
But four years after his death, I like 
the reminder he was here. I like
to remember how he loved soft things. 
How he was capable of such tenderness 
in the ways he held the world,
this world that could not manage to hold him. 

Read Full Post »


 
 
When no one
is looking
she touches
the wound
that hides
beneath
her smile
where the scion
of acceptance
was grafted 
to her rootstock
of stubbornness.
Most people
don’t notice
the scar,
focused as they are
on the fruit,
but she 
remembers
the cut, 
the tissue exposed.
How tenderly
she traces
that place
where the union
was formed. 
Since the wounding,
her fruits 
have become 
vibrant, complex, 
so sharp, even tart, 
and so sweet.
 

Read Full Post »


                  for Thilo
 
To the unmoving body 
of the tiny bird in the grass
below the kitchen window,
the young boy brings a plate 
of white safflower seeds.
Hours later, when the bird
has not moved, one wing still askew,
the boy weeps. His father and I 
sing a death song as we carry 
the almost weightless body
in a brief procession across the yard.
The boy and his mother walk
behind. Her fingers lightly rest 
where his own wings would be.
There is a tenderness inside us
that knows every life is precious
and refuses to pretend otherwise. 
Later, the boy carves a chickadee
into the top crust of an apple pie,
making of grief something beautiful.
I want to protect that part of him—
the part that feels, that respects, 
that honors. I want to awaken
that part in us all—the part
that dares to care deeply, 
the part that knows every
life matters.

Read Full Post »

Orbit


 
 
I thought I was holding grief.
Tonight I see grief is holding me.
Not with a vice grip. Not with a fist.
More the way gravity
holds the earth to the sun—
a force without which our planet
would lose all warmth, all life.
Love has many names. Grief is one,
and I am grateful tonight for the way
it tethers me not only to pain but
to beauty, goodness, connection.
Tonight I see grief not as a problem
to be solved but as an energy to explore,
to move with, to circle what is beloved.
There is some comfort even in knowing
it will never let me go. It is right that it
should hold me, even as I turn and turn.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »