Solomon says sorrow is better
than laughter. There is refining
when I cry. Salt on my lips,
water in my ducts absent joy.
Does he know grief–way you can
stand over a body and break open,
the easy yolk coming up less
sunshiny, goodbye heavy?
You are gasping. Air, air, air.
Someone looks at you, would you
like some cucumber water?
You shake your head. Yes.
You sip so slow.
You are feet away now.
She isn’t getting up.
You are shaking inside.
You don’t ask God anything.
You watch a video of smiles–
when she is young, tiny, a baby.
You sit, letting ache have it’s way
a month & a day later
because denial’s fog
deepens these philosopher’s words
on letting in, not yet letting go.