You’d never tell
how capable of grieving
your body is.
It’s made that way.
There is this space
between the surge of
memories and
the moment your tears pearl in
the corners of your eyes.
In that space, you trudge through
loss and acquiescence,
prying on what should’ve been
said, what should’ve been done.
In that space, your bones buckle.
Then there’s a pang of conscience,
and a rise in blood pressure.
Were you there the whole time?
If yes, then why is remorse making
you shake like that? Why
did your mouth just run dry?
Then, taken aback
by the twinge in your heart,
there comes the rancor,
the most scarring, indelible feeling.
Your lungs are now full
of suppressed exhales.
