The dullness
of this count does not mirror
the flash
of metal that cuts longing
into irregular slices
of grief.
No steady hand
can regulate how
it gets measured, how
another day will fold
open with his absence
now ink
that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.
The labor of breathing
without gasping
through these hollowed-out
days. The fear
of never being able
to recite the Serenity Prayer
again because of the way
the throat closes shut
before “grant me”
can escape. Just one more
bear hug, one more laugh
over lost cookies, one more
email exchange, just one
more hand squeezing, one
more simultaneous gazing
at the same full moon
while standing thousands of miles
apart, one more walk
side by side
would not be enough.
I surrender to this
grief and put my trust
in the wind still blowing
from those resilient wings.
Death’s got nothing
on them.
When I can’t recognize
the taste of my own
name on the tip
of this inherited tongue.
When water terrifies
but is the only way.
When light’s brilliance
before death
takes me by the hand.
When I’ve got no place
else to go,
the rhythm of you
remains—you
big ole’ muddy river.
And time to put away
the dresses, seal
windows shut, remember
my stupid hat and gloves
and the fastest route
through the largest skyway
network to a view
of the river
where grief can flow.
The morning after
it all, I wonder
when, where, how
it will emerge.
When will
the aftershocks
of his death cease?
Where did
the bagpiper go,
where should
those empty shells
from the gun salute go?
How will
I know
this is
the new normal?
As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen
to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill
onto the round table with change.
Time to read
a chapter in a novel, watch
a movie start
to finish (without interruption), listen
to anything but
songs from Nirvana’s Nevermind
on the radio. Time to tuck
the tributes, altered memories, grief between
pages of a journal
you’ve been rereading
(without interruption) for two months. Bible
studies will be held
on Sunday evenings in your favorite coffee house.
(He’ll still be dead.)
Those girls will continue to grow.
Sometimes leaves will turn and fall
at the same time.
What was once a blush
you so eagerly sought
to induce has become
a flush
into my middle
age. The gap has been shrinking
steadily for nine years. I hope to catch
you in another nine. Grief—nothing
embarrassing about it.
For non-drivers a dead man’s
curve exposes an inner belt
deep within. Just as suddenly,
just as lethal, just as exhilarating
for the survivor. But I
don’t know if I should accelerate
around this grief.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 