GRIEF Poem: To Your Doorstep, by Jill Keegan

I carry my grief in my feet.
I miss you to the tune of
the click of heels on concrete leadened with summer heat,
to the squish of sandals on the ocean bottom
that can’t help but sing of childhood.

Grief landed on my shoulders
and I promptly shrugged it off;
I need those for other things
carrying my child
washing dishes
typing your obituary

It slid down my chest and made a claim to my heart
but I evicted it from there, as well,
I do not deal in clichés—
Besides, you already claimed it;
I’ve not the space for another.

Of course, my legs were next,
but their sinews would snap
if they dwelled on permanence.
It’s been a while since we played soccer at Rowley,
Forgive me,
I’m out of practice.

Naturally, it fell to the one remaining place
on this body that keeps me from you.
I felt it lodge itself deep in my tendons
and radiate to my toes.

So every Saturday,
I walk from my doorstep to yours
and watch the concrete under me
leach heat like a foreign planet.

I measure eternity
in paces
to wherever you are.