my grief is a know-how
because i’m too proud, too smart, too good
at everything, to come to terms
with not knowing how to lose you.
•
i wear my smarts by the hospital bed
and look up all the time. make sure i
hold my breath, when you hold yours,
heart terribly knotted, until you exhale,
and the panic dissipates (for now).
•
a pity, indeed! but only
that for all my talents,
i suppose i still cannot hack grief.
but fret not! (i say to myself)
•
grief and logic can walk a parallel line,
if i only master (or perhaps mimic)
the traits of an inline skater.
first, i hold my core steady
•
then unsteady; i am four flailing limbs
as the road becomes a stranger but
somewhere between brute strength and
desperation i manage to keep from falling.
(yet hardly skilled enough she is to keep the lines from bleeding unto each other)
•
i am haphazard, then altogether
obnoxious in proclaiming that
grief is my know-how
(for knowledge is much easier than practice.)
endreeyah 