Grief
Sometimes
in dark, sometimes in light when something else hurts too much to think about
sometimes suddenly, like an avalanche; other times with an aching slowness
a creeping horror honeys my limbs, drawing flies. My bed becomes the only thing
soft enough to touch. I cry like a dying animal might: soft, pointless, no alarm only agony.
In the mirror I’m like a preliminary sketch
of myself: pale and wrongly-proportioned. I will shower, and lean against the back wall
and wrap my arms around myself, gentle like the spring sun, steadfast like the tide. I hold
small hard objects – a pendant, a plectrum, a little silver ring – run my thumb over the ridges and knots, feel the weight of time before. Never is the hardest word; want is difficult, water
gone down the wrong way, scouring my throat. I won’t eat properly for days – when I do
I pillow my meals with sugar and starch, ply my wildest hours with television until they’re tame.
Exhaustion sets in; but sleep is quiet, and my dreams are soft as kittens
tumbling over and over.
After a few days, I will wash my hair
and call a friend
and tell them I’ve been sad.
Daisy Harris Poetry 