May 20th, August 27th, October 1st Are Mine

even a real Babel fish
can’t translate my grief
into yours. Yours into mine.

As much as we try to grieve
together, we grieve alone.

The friend I lost 31 years ago
was their sister.
The one I lost 6 years ago
was his brother.

I never met your sister.
My sisters live

with their own losses.
My bother his.
We each said good-bye
to our father

in our own voice. A wave
blasts against a sea wall.

A silenced stream still moves
beneath a frozen ceiling
under a Wolf Moon.
Am I a thief

to try to write about anyone’s
except mine? Even mine?
I’ve been known to steal
from many of my former selves.

It’s time to find
Tranströmer’s deer tracks

in the snow. The real language
of grief could be hidden inside
those heart-shaped imprints
without words.

2 thoughts on “May 20th, August 27th, October 1st Are Mine

  1. The Transtromer poem you reference is so great. Your poem reminds me of TT’s “Black Postcards”:

    In the middle of life it happens that death comes
    to take your measurements. The visit
    is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
    is sewn in the silence.

    Liked by 1 person

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