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need as such a complicated term
what most consider a bode of necessity
or a sensual desire
you coerced need into survival bones
of my body, and branded me
told me to earn love, but never worthy
let me believe in loyalty, then
siphoned every bit of life from me
depraved of self-identity, but starved
on the day I walked away
I saw your begging, thieving eyes
I never turned around

Crows carry me.
Sometimes one, sometimes two,
But never for long.
Some Crows bite more
than others, it
hurts,
But I make no noise.
Sometimes they drop me,
But never long enough.
Seeds start roots,
Crows come back.
Crows of Consistency
They tear roots out
And it hurts
Away they fly to the
next grove, Surrounded
By trees that have roots
Deeper than thought
Trees who have been in
The grove for years
Im in a new grove now,
And my roots, against my
Will, grow again.
As the dark comes,
Hic Corvi,
Here Be Crows.

So, there is no rule book when it comes to grief
no rules of what to do
There is not a right or wrong way to let a Loved One go
Because the hurt is true
You can be smiling one minute and then you break down and cry
You can be crying one moment and a memory make you smile and sigh
There will be days that it may feel that your Loved One is still near
And then there are other days realization brings along heartbreak and fear
The fear of what losing a Loved One brings is something no one can plan
Grief takes the mind through so many things, so much to not understand
It’s as if you are in a quiet, dark room with your hand reaching out afar
But then when you lean forward to embrace it’s farther than the Northern Star
The hurt does not stop hurting and the pain keeps providing ache
The memories creep in and away from reality you cannot shake
Loved Ones are permanently affixed and are never supposed to leave
But, if and when they do know that there is no right way to grieve.

A few months after he died we went and scattered Scott’s ashes at the beach. It was going to be Longnook but Longnook was closed so we did it at Coast Guard instead. It was blisteringly hot. Ron brought a Tupperware of marigolds and handed them out to each of us. The ashes themselves we scooped out of a plastic bag using recycled sake cups, the kind you pop out of the individual bottles. One by one we each went down to the water’s edge, waded until it was up to the knee. Marigolds bobbed in the water. I just want you to know that what you’re doing is very beautiful, a woman, approaching, said through her tears. Can I give you a blessing? My mother taught me how to bless the dead. Without further instruction she began to sing, her voice stretching into operatic Italian notes. The song was neither mournful nor poignant, but indecipherable, like sounds from an exotic bird. Would Scott have hated this, I wonder, or would he have laughed? When I returned to my beach chair I found a wild cormorant sitting there, unbothered for so long it had fallen asleep. Elsewhere the marigolds are floating.

O Amun I can’t share my sorrows,
For the face that hath golden shine.
That face that became a morrow,
For the world which has sunk in water of Rhine.

My soul can still remember the first visage
Of course that goddess, tough I was astonished,
To read her character from the cage
Of my mind. Her lunacy was the key,

Which caught my feelings for her luve,
I even fathomed that exceptional was her behaviour.
Though I had nothing to do for luve,
Time made us unite for the new journey.

The smile that hath the magnificent Charming
To sooth my heart I felt glory.
To make her the part of my life with a singing,
Of almighty Juno. To me She was the climax of inseparable story.

Every morrow her cacophony welcomed the beginning of my day.
I had a juvenile look from my eagpyrel to her eyes.
She used to engage herself in various childish play.
But Heaven knows why my eyes were on her eyes.

She used to say come Mr. Let’s talk about the land,
Which is free from the hunters of Hephaestus.
Where the will have not been disappeared into the sand,
Of our modern cruel thoughts.

Yes! She was a wacky girl, but what ails?
All are the creations of almighty hands.
But today I am solitary, she has become the sails,
Of the boat of my luve, which is always floating upon the sea,

Of everlasting darkness, which is the companion,
Of my time till the end. Like Ixion to the wheels.
After that no sound will be heard and I will begone,
To the soul who will be mine no separation will be seen.

But till then I shalt have to dwell
For the prayers of the soul
Which will not be wiped out
Time is a healer, though it can’t have bites over the final roll

When I was in band in junior high farting around on a trumpet I had no business desecrating like I did, there was a phenomenon among our section called the spit valve, that when your instrument got too gurgly and the brass sounded rotten you pressed down on the spit valve and drained out the mysterious liquid that had been floating around in the battered snaking tubes. We’d spray it on each other in silent hysterics, from the back row of the band, dribble it on the floor and unsuspecting flutists shiny black shoes, but when a nasally voice muffled by an oboe mouthpiece would raise the alarm of the spit valve, help teacher, the trumpets are spitting on everyone again, we, in tandem with our director, gave the winy defense

It’s not spit! It’s condensation!

I don’t know if this is true.

But it was what we argued, along with our director who only sought to keep the poor peace, that the hot breath against sharp smelling metal for forty minutes caused the gathering of condensation droplets on the inside, let out through the spit valve,

It’s not spit, it’s condensation,

I can still feel the cold metal, unrelenting,

I don’t know love from my left hand and you don’t know hate from a hole in the ground.

I’m keeling in front of you, tongue running up and down the side- it’s not spit, it’s condensation,

Your body is so cold.

Trying to find my way back to living,
my soul plays peek-a-boo in a vacuum tunnel,
where oxygenated cells have fled,
abandoning a hollow body,
thoughts swirling,
deeply entrenched in denial.

A sense of torpor settles over me as I
gaze at the empty walls,
the fabric of my cushion covers,
even my fingernails—they stare back,
silent witnesses, exuding a soothing tension in the air.

I’ve knocked myself out with awakened mindfulness,
where dreams no longer distort reality;
they are sharp yet obscured,
while fears fade,
lingering like shadows at dusk,
prolonging the delicate dance of human sentiments.

“I’ve outgrown the pain; I am no longer a sufferer.”
But what does it mean to outgrow,
to leave behind the ghosts of yesterday?
Perhaps it is to embrace the light
that flickers within,
a quiet rebellion against the darkness.

You say it’s your favorite color.

Is that why you seem to enjoy when the red of my cheeks makes that shade stand out in my eyes?

And yet, when I don a dress in the same tone,
you leave deep scars on my self-image. Deeper than
most of the ones I gave myself on my skin.

I remember being excited for the holiday season, where our two favorite colors lit up our apartment.

Yet now, the love drains from my chest, leaving a darkness
that I would rather have swallow me
than exist in the landscape you created.

I remember when you used to look at me
As if I were the moon,
Hanging in your sky,
Soft and luminous, pulling the tides in your chest.
There was something in your eyes
A quiet worship, a longing,
Like I was both faraway and yet yours to hold.
In those moments,
I believed I was made of light,
Reflecting something beautiful back to you.

But maybe I’m just delusional.
Maybe I read too much into the way
Your eyes lingered a little too long,
The way your breath seemed to catch
When the distance between us thinned.
Maybe it was never the moon you saw in me,
Only a fleeting shadow,
A pale echo of something you wanted to find
But never truly did.

I try to tell myself that I imagined it,
That I painted you in the colors of my own dreams,
But still,
There’s a part of me that holds on
Clings to the way your gaze once softened,
As if you saw something celestial in me,
Something rare and worth orbiting.

I don’t want my heart to ache for you,
To tremble in the hollow spaces
Where your light used to reach me.
I tell myself it’s easier to forget,
To close the door on those memories
Before they grow too heavy
And sink me like stones.

But how can I stop the ache
When the nights are so quiet,
When the moon still rises,
And I remember the way you once looked at me
Like I was its reflection?
The truth is,
I don’t want to ache,
But I do.
I ache in the silence you left behind,
In the empty places where your gaze used to rest,
And I can’t help but wonder
If you ever look up at the moon
And think of me
Or if I was just another phase you outgrew.

The day after was so very quiet.
It was oh so deafeningly silent,
and there was no use in denying it.
You were gone.

The day after was so very quiet.
There was no breaking that horrid silence.
The air was as still as your body was.
You were still gone.

The day after was so very quiet.
But something new filled that awful silence.
The sound of tears, of grief, of our mourning.
You will live on.

Because even in death, you still live on.
You were a good dog, a wonderful friend.
As they say, “in time, even a heart mends.”
We still love you.

We all still love you, and we’ll meet again.