Tuesday, 12 June 2012

Poem: "The Grief Stone"


Grief can be perfect, you know
Free of the psychic bureaucracies
And twisted compensations
Of mourning and melancholia.

It's a little stone, diamond even,
That lodges at the base of your trachea
And yanks your innards, one and all 
Upwards.

You will never be more human
Or alive
Than when you feel that stone settle
Into its proper place, and call you, 
Sternum and throat,                  
Back to the faces of the dead,

So that you might finally know
Something of this world
With a stone's certainty:


That in the time they were given,
These people were loved.

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