Charles Hood, Tributaries
THE SHAPE OF GRIEF
“Grief ‘s addictive, it will hitch a ride on anything.”
Linda Gregerson, “Elegant” in Prodigal
A lost package, a missed train,
a sock without a mate, the last light of summer
grief is greedy
snatching everything in sight
like a magnet sucking iron filings
or the pull of a neutron star
even burnt lima beans bring tears
the acrid stench on Sundays
cook’s day off
when my mother attempted dinner
actually got out of bed, actually did
get out of bed, after us girls came home
from church, wearing our too-tight taffeta dresses
and ill-tempered faces
looking like a pair of petulant tulips.
I see now she tried
despite her depression
her suicidal flirtations, just once a week
she actually tried, while we complained
still wearing our ill-fitting dresses,
jabbing each other under the table.
Our father sat silent
as a noon bat, pretending not to notice
the bad behavior and the burnt lima beans.
I have tried to catch grief, wrestle it to the ground
and say look enough already
but grief has become almost a religion
a wilted rose, a wine stain, a broken window
and like a faithful follower, I feel the hot hand
of grief tracing fingers on my spine, I hear
the summons of hymns
the smooth syllables of seduction
my knees bend.
__________________
Claire Scott