The weight of this,
of running errands,
laundry day, nine a.m. meetings,
unsnarling thoughts,
pleating memories, hunting down
the words that look like your
mind the most.
You do that. Daily,
nightly, momently, and the beating
muscle behind your ribcage never
hurts. Why would it hurt?
The weight is barely discernible,
isn’t it?
It is.
It’s the burden that is heavy.
It’s heavy, really,
when you’ve been holding
that weight alone for years, and
grief won’t stop pressing
your lungs with its
rough palms.
