Grief Written

I know that I am filled with contradictions. When you broke my heart another time, I pushed you to the outskirts of my mind  And often I wonder if you can feel the distance. The absence of lavender when I cross your mind. While it is true that it was your hand that set the city ablaze, It was I that locked the gates behind you as it burned. It was my city and therefore it was my ruin. And why would you return to ashes? There is no such thing as a mutual exile. But if for a moment we forgot about the wreckage in which we now exist, I could tell you that often I wonder if you’re proud of me if you hear my voice on the radio see my name in the byline  and recognize your image, your father’s image in the stories that I write. I’ve begun to rebuild the city — sweep away the ashes. But in the quiet moments, I can almost hear the crackling of what used to be. The contradiction of when heavy was the head that held the crown  But soft were your hands beneath my head when you laid ...

My grief coexists in the twilight zone  Somewhere where contradictions meld together  I live in the twilight zone  Where I both miss you extraordinarily  And crave the moment the you in my poetry becomes something else  Where you are no longer you, but the him in all my metaphors. Somehow I straddle the past, what I wish was  Along with the future, what I hope may be And in between the two is the multiverse where those two moments meet.

 My best friend sat in the corner of my bed watching me whisk furiously as I laughed to keep myself from crying, She’d been there all morning into the afternoon and the cup of coffee I had made her had been replaced with a glass of wine. “Why are you still doing that?” I carefully poured the filling over the toasted pecans, watching the crust disappear. “I promised him I would.” She took a sip from her glass and I could see her mulling over her next comment. “You should spit in it.” “He probably would like that,” I told her. “Maybe I’ll just etch the word humble into a slice.” She laughed, and for a moment I thought her careful examination was over. When I removed the pie from the oven I sighed in defeat at some of the burnt edges, shrugging while I said “it’s probably just a breakup pie anyway.” I remember when you had asked me if I could bake a pecan pie which I replied surely that I could. Within minutes I had saved a recipe, within days I had bought the ingredients. When you no...