It is hard to make room for what is no longer there;
it's so much larger now, boulders blocking our throats, our breath. Even the air weighs like granite and fills every waking space so that moving becomes an infinite staying in place, small gestures pressing, chafing our flesh.
In time enclosed in the hot ash of our grief, something chisels pinholes of light; we feel our breathing expand around us, sounds of cracking signal widening fissures, rivulets of light come back to us.
One day what we lost still remains, but we can walk through it, a stream washing and lapping our way.
no subject
Loss
by Mary E. Martin
It is hard to make
room for what
is no longer there;
it's so much larger now,
boulders blocking
our throats, our breath.
Even the air
weighs like granite
and fills every waking
space so that moving
becomes an infinite
staying in place,
small gestures pressing,
chafing our flesh.
In time
enclosed in the hot
ash of our grief,
something chisels
pinholes of light;
we feel our breathing
expand around us,
sounds of cracking
signal widening fissures,
rivulets of light come back to us.
One day what we lost
still remains, but we can walk
through it, a stream washing
and lapping our way.