Thanks very much to Thicket House for passing this one along.
I want my grief
to be brilliant, fast and gone.
Like Mozart. Or Stevie Ray.
Like fireworks. Boom! Flash!
Ooh, ahh. OK, done. Let’s go.
I want my grief to be brave.
Hurts more now, heals faster,
Grandma said, pouring salt
On a skinned knee.
I want to stand up to grief,
Stand it down, like the
Tiny man, big tank
In Tiananmen Square.
Because. Because if I am brave,
Bold, salty, open enough
The tank, the bleeding, the tears
Will stop sooner. I tell myself.
But grief laughs. Humbles me.
I lose keys, break cups, get lost.
Asked at CarMax Why are you
Selling this car? I burst
Into an embarrassment of tears.
A friend says, One doesn’t have grief,
Grief has you.
We wrestle, to the mat. I’m pinned.
But sometimes I break free.
Break patterns instead of dishes.
Start to write myself a new story,
To fling myself toward yes,
Begin to say, Oh. Now this. . . . Observe
What life brings. Reframe. Say,
I’m not wrestling grief,
So, I put my right foot in . . .
And turn myself about.