GRIEF Poem: Knives to Grind, by Elizabeth Ambos

So acute is this sharp parting—
an iceberg calves from my heart.

This cold mass does not flee—
it hoe-harrows a steeper scarp.

I am that holy man.
Drifting through the desert,
mud cracks rayed in all directions—
cutting my feet.

I am that anchorite.
Fed through a rusty grate
chained—
in my nesting cell.

In that high house in San Francisco he died:
So lone so soon so young.

Small bread knife parings sour water
all—
grind to ashes in my mouth.