summer of 1999

 

 

Grief dances

Grief dances her way

through the streets of the slum

while the women whisper— 

No shame.

Grief lingers obtrusively

in the corner of your eye 

at every family gathering—

Sprinkles distaste on all your old favorites.

Grief hounds you at home,

begs you to leave,

wishes you would stay—

Never satisfied, like a mother, with your choice.

Grief returns 

like the cowboy in a western

come to duel for the soul 

of a dusty decrepit town.

She returns 

like the shivering autumn leaves

to the dirt,

like your unrelated aunt 

showing up to visit unannounced.

Grief crashes

to the floor like a pot 

from the kitchen cabinet 

in the middle of the night.

She is a sudden summer thunderstorm.

Grief returns 

like the hair tie you lost,

the water bottle you forgot about

and don’t want to wash,

like the cilantro you left in the fridge.

She returns 

like the golden retriever

at the end of Homeward Bound—

Stubborn, relentless,

            kissing your wet, 

                            messy face.

— olivia gwyn