grief, poetry

Ten Years

I still smell

The air of medical struggle,

They took you in

Sudden but not a surprise,

Knowing you were hanging on,

Soul packed and ready to fly

To better skies than the night

Overhead,

I’d stayed a year of Saturdays,

Bore spousal displeasure,

To try and offer up a meagre

Sacrifice against the grief

Both present and forthcoming,

I tell myself he was waiting,

Trying to find greater meaning

Because as Tom Wolfe said,

Non fiction doesn’t have to

Make sense,

So for all the losses,

I’ve recovered from,

Within and without,

There’s still this,

A ghost,

A wound,

Still learning the route

To exorcism or expedition,

For all this pretty string of words,

Unplug them and hear this:

Whatever holds the keys to

This vessel we’re passengers within,

Give me back my

Grandparents

I won’t say it any clearer

Than

That

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