the grief body [fragment]
the grief body knows things i don’t.
it remembers everything that i can’t, right now, but reminds me every time fingertips or lips trace my skin that it used to feel different than
the lightning sharp crackle that registers as a tickle
but is panic, a too-much-stop-it
under nerves unfurling white flags
the grief body is a delicate system – too much sun and it curls and dies
too much water and it sighs, sloughs gloomily into
untouched by earth.
you can’t feed it enough when it rears and stomachs greedy gulps of shadow, never quite the food on its plate
you can’t calm it when it rages across salt and heat-baked plains to crash senseless
or when it curls,
into its own pitted core.
it burns too bright
and dies its little deaths
before i can.