I would like to register a complaint
about grief. Whose stupid idea was this?
Whichever angel was in charge
of giving human beings capacity
to move through sadness and then
feel better -- they screwed up.
Even after four weeks, grief is a wave
that hits sometimes at chest height
and sends salt water up my nose.
To make matters worse, it's
an ocean wave that swamps me
at the grocery store -- I'm not even
at the goddamn beach. Grief is
a pane of glass two feet thick
that crushes me like a pressed flower.
Grief is the same menu over and over.
Grief is banal as a crayon drawing
by someone else's kindergartener.
I would like to exchange this grief
for something that fits me better,
in a more flattering color.
I would like to set it afire, kindled
on a bed of crumpled tissues
and return it to Sender.