Okay, I take it all back—you can talk
to me all you want
about _______ (WHAT).
Guess there's really
no loss quite like
the bloodless
remembrance of loss,
probably because—no loss
except it.
Do not try to pronounce that thing, just
accept it:
"foist." "crack." "pervade." "insinuate."
This all sounds right in your own native
tongue—doesn't it?
do dishes
fix
coffee clean and
type little crumbs
all you want. But please, let me revise
at least this
one paragraph for you:
to grieve, you'll have to
open up.
I don't mean—empty. And I don't mean
write. I mean:
you must speak.
Speak and say the wrong things.
Speak
to fill up
the raw freezing gulf
that exists
between you
and the rest of us.
Speak,
if just
to keep breathing,
to exhale
and fill the bare air up
with warmer stuff.
