sjsprWriting

You can make a friend of grief,

offer it a sweater to wear, a cup of tea.

When all your real friends are gone

you can walk through the woods with it,

burying little jars

stuffed with their memories—

photo-booth snapshots, some jewels,

until real life grows so vague

your landlord thinks

you’re crazy. Grief expects this

and invents funny insults about

your landlord’s wife and the possibility

of love. You may decide the events

of your day—writing, bathing,

waking up—were hobbies,

anyway, so you forget them

to think of your own death

more purely. You lie around a lot.

An old friend drops by unexpectedly,

saying you’re pale, get dressed,

have a beer. But you’re

too smart for that. You admire anyone

simply for not being you. Grief

has taken off its mask.

Standing behind you, it is smoke

or perfume or a ghost; it steps

into your sleeping arms like sleeves,

blinking for you, scrambling your brains.