POETRY

Grief is like a cold stone

Grief is like a cold stone,
it’s something you pick up,
something you hold on to,
it has weight, texture,
a body gritty or smooth
of edges cleaved from bigger things.

The stone is cold,
it’s hard, like a winter
before fire,
but if you cup it tightly,
you can warm it,
keep it like an egg
under your animal-ness,
until it hatches into a bird
that only you can name,
and only you can free.

The stone can become many things,
can be a tool
for sharpening steel,
or chipped itself
into a crude instrument
of cutting,

its something that can be thrown,
hurled through windows
where the sound of the shatter
echoes through the mind
and turns into laughter
or hysterical sobs,

it’s something that can become
a weapon,
a face for sparking
the streets into infernos
where the smoke
can be seen from the moon.

Grief has a scent,
it’s a breath inhaled
within the confines of a cave,
where the earth
and the water
ask you to lick their walls,
to taste their salt,
the suppuration of the world.

Grief can take any size,
it can be small as a pebble,
or large as existence,
and if you choose
to become its collector,
your pockets will fill
with this stifling dread,
this unfathomable crushing desire
to either stop moving
or to walk
as slow as the tide
into the sea that birthed it.

Provocative truth teller, author of 14 poetry collections. Cat dad. Dog dad. Currently working from Portland, Oregon. Learn more at: Jaysizemore.com.

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