Some days, I wear grief
like a pair of worn wool socks.
At other times, I lick hard
the lollipop of grief—run my tongue
over lemon-lime shards, the torn
roof of my mouth.
My mother misplaces grief—
slams doors and cabinets searching
for it. A toddler overdue for a nap,
she whines about snow
piled high on the sidewalk, my father’s teasing
mind—lighting up with facts,
dimming with fiction. Her endless
list of things to do.
Eventually, she finds grief—
sleeping under neatly folded
sweaters in her closet,
or in a kitchen drawer, stuck
between the shears and meat pounder.
I, too, struggle
to be grateful for what’s here. For gusts
driving snow against a building, for gravity
forcing it to the ground. For what’s still
intact in my father’s brain.
It’s my sister’s fifth winter
beneath the frozen ground.
Her grave’s near the edge
of Long Island, a mile from the beach
where we scavenged driftwood,
blue-green glass—dead things
the ocean turned beautiful.
I say, be thankful
for the endless
list of things to do.
I know, I know, my mother says
as she twists the tops off plastic
vials, counts out my father’s
weekly supply of 144 orange,
white, blue, and green pills.
