Volume of Grief
How many cubic units must grief occupy?
And how to measure?
I'd suffer an umbral shadow
in a lunar eclipse, my aura rimmed
with a blistering bruise.
In cotton bales, I'd lumber
under kilo after kilo, mouth dry
as a foolscap-quad of paper sheets.
In hat sizes twenty gallon.
On the Glasgow Coma Scale:
complete gibberish.
If grief is measurable,
then it should be disposable,
like a broken bed, or a newspaper.
Burnable like a cord of wood,
expendable like wattage. Frittered away
like minutes and hours.
Walked away from, like the bad job.
Downed by the pint.
Shed like a pound.
Subtracted from, divided by.
Deleted.
© T. Clear
6 comments:
Beautiful poem, T. And I love your picture under the rock. Hang in there.
I wish, I wish.
Lovely, poignant poem.
Sending love.
It is disposable but we have to be ready to wrap it in yesterdays newspaper and toss it out. When the time is right for you it will be left behind.
Great poem, haunting images.
This is a lovely and achingly sad poem. Hang on T.
Dear T - arms around you in this tumultuous place, wanting so to lift and soothe. . . listening to - and hearing - you. Take care. L, C xo
This is such hard, harsh place.
Love, C.
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