i trace the exquisite lines of my grief, run
my fingers over the contours of the rock that is
my gut like the tender potter over his clay
kneading, kneading to soften the lump
and lift my head to find the
world hadn’t ground
to a halt in honor
of my loss.
squeals puncture the playground air
with a drumroll of sneakers that sound carefree but
for the worry of Tag. nothing matters more to the
flustered It than not being It anymore.
the park, a carol of delight
in the moment
it is a holiday.
a daughter is given away,
the sun breaks on the threshold of her hopes,
her horizon wide outside the windows of the church
i walk into an office, took the long way
through hell. after the unsure “i’m sorry”
the girl behind the counter continues on her business.
epiphany: the sky that had fallen on me
had shielded her head. her day intact, she consults
the clock that agrees she ought to pick up her
son from school. she doesn’t see
her beautiful ordinary.
a baby is born in the moment of my
stunned helplessness. such long arms:
the hour holds my emptiness in one hand
the fullness of a mother in the other.
but i bow my head again
my sorrow, a pain that refracts the sun.
why must anyone orbit my heartache?
i free the world to its joys and
mourn with those who mourn.
to every thing there is a season and
a time to every purpose under heaven
my time to weep, someone’s right to laugh.
i loosen the hold on the rock that is
my gut, slippery with tears. my offering
before the opulence of living.
~ for all who have grieved