grief

Once it starts
and if it's tied
as it is
to something real and weighty
a thing made of concrete and iron
when it's tied to that
the work of it
will
never
be
finished

I can tell you also

my grief
my grief
my grief

it is mine, mine, mine
you cannot know it
or assuage it
or understand it
or own any part of it

I WILL NOT SHARE IT BECAUSE IT IS MINE AND IT IS ALL I HAVE NOW

IT POURS OUT IN UNEXPECTED AND INAPPROPRIATE MOMENTS GUSHING ON THE FLOOR
IT APPEARS AND DISTRACTS AND OCCUPIES AND PREOCCUPIES LONG AFTER IT SHOULD HAVE FADED
it's there
when i brush my teeth
it's there
when the sun sets
it's there
on those days in the fall
it's there
AND IT WILL NOT LEAVE BECAUSE IT IS NEVER DONE

and I do not want it to be done
(it is memory, it is love, it is real, and it is the closet i can come to sitting in that room again watching the rise and fall)

You cannot know it

at best
maybe
you can sit before it
and know that it exists

but it is mine
it is the only thing I can truly own