Cynthia Atkins

I have come to accept begrudgingly

that grief has no dress code, it doesn’t

knock, no, it barges through the door—

Discord squeaks the hinges, it deliberately

bumps up against the furniture, lets you know

who is the boss of this turf. It pretends to keep

banker’s hours, but never stands on ceremony.

                      At any threshold, it will interrupt

your small moments of joy, with sneery aplomb.

Grief used to meet me after dark, when all the kids

left the street to go home and take their baths.

It brought the moon to my doorstep to rub

it’s tinctured glow, like a wet dog rolling in dew. 

I am stoic. I am measured.  But now I know grief

is the first cousin to euphoria.  It blows up all the air

in the room. It will drag you through the mud, shake

and knock you down.

                    A captive audience, it looks you

straight in the eye. Grief sits at every empty

place at the table. It brushes your hair by lamp light.

It takes you by the throat and steals your alphabet.

Words become empty holes.  When you test the waters,

when you burn your mouth, it’s quiet as a prayer.

Once, I tried to suck it down with a vacuum cleaner,

so that I could scream the demon out,

as my child slept in the other room.