How grief is like you have eaten a stone:
You stare. Once on a train you stared at a
pink baby, grated to the core with sobs,
and wished for both the sobbing and the sleep.
Ankles thickened with lazy, pooling blood.
Body waterlogged, useless sealion-
distended and lumbering but
dry and brittle as some shivering bur.
Scrubbed clean, plain, and bundled into real clothes,
ritual is the ember of control
Visitors try to fan at the thin fire,
their kind faces are a distant alarm
and casting around for something to say,
you find only clods of gravel and sand.