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:

•

grief and logic can walk a parallel line,

for how hard can walking on a tightrope be?

first, I hold my core steady,

•

then, without warning, I am four flailing limbs

as balance becomes a stranger, but

somewhere between brute strength and

desperation I manage to keep from falling.

(though hardly skilled enough she is

to keep the lines from blending into each other)

•

I am haphazard, then altogether 

obnoxious in proclaiming that 

grief is my know-how

(for knowledge is much easier than practice.)