Tag Archives: grief

What It Takes to Tango

I brushed my hair today.
I went out into the world of chatter-
I talked to people I care for,
About subjects that matter-
I laughed with my children.
I ran errands overdue
I ate only good foods.
Underneath and out of view,
I wept.

I felt so awful, I didn’t know how
To travel into the next heartbeat.
But on I forged in caravan
Of breath, and will, and fumbling feet,
And some kind of social gravity,
Like chaotic steps emblazoned on a dance floor
I fumble through graceless
Stomping feet, unsure
If it constitutes a dance.

Knowing You are leading,
And I’m in Your hands.


She was so thin,
Bones and stories
And jokes.

She survived my world,
My weighty horrors,
So thin.

Everyone laughed when she wanted them to,
Fell silent when silence was due,
And I thought

Her frail bones made her seem so pitiable,
Some little bird who needed nestling,
And a worm or two.

I sat on my haunches, my stout paunch
Introducing me,
And I look so hearty,

I look so durable in this new flesh
I’ve worn for a decade
Covering my frail bones.

She was so cool, making soda pop jokes
Over the scenes of rape,
And starvation.

She ate nothing, but her entourage
Ate every single word, every inflection,
From her birdlike hands.

I ate them too, but couldn’t swallow
All the jokes, the laughter
Spliced into my horrors.

She laughed delicate swirls,
Fleeting and dissolving
Like thin snowflakes.

So thin.

I eat comfort, answers, procrastination,
And store them on
My hollow bones.