In the paroxysms of grief
I fall to my knees
lean into the couch
face buried in a cushion,
wailing to a nameless god.
The body contracts
seizes, wraps like a trembling fist
around something
already gone
holds tight to its absence.
Like an afterbirth
a third stage of labor
expels the last vestiges
of miscarried dreams
stillborn possibilities.
The slow contractions of holding
and releasing, holding
and releasing, pulse
through the days arrhythmic
as a broken heart.
This is how we grieve
at the speed of the body
hollowing ourselves of a future
until we find a new way
of holding the past.
One Response
Beautiful