Grief is a Simmer Pot

I wonder when I will be able

to stop talking about grief.

That simmer pot on my stove

that I have stopped tending

so that it sends smoke

and burnt herbs

sliding through my house.

Sneaking under the cracks

in the doors.

Soaking into the bed sheets.

Soaking into the dreams.

Soaking into the stew

and the chai

and the aching truths

twisting around in my heart.

I wonder when I will

allow the reminder note

on the front door to tell

its truth.

So that it stops whispering

“turn off the stove”

and starts chanting

“turn on the grief, grief, grief.”

A pan soaks in my sink,

charred orange rinds and anise

reminding me that it hasn’t

all been felt yet.

All of it.

Yes, that and that and that.

I think it must always be a web.

I think a loss needs all

the other losses in order

to stop feeling so alone in the

desperate hollow of it.

Can I let the choking sob

that wakes me in the night

flow like a bath of milk and herbs

and leave the armor for

a different battle?

Can I be loved in this grief?

Can I love rightly and fully

even under the dark, heavy wool

of this blanket?

Can I leave salt flavored

kisses on sleeping cheeks

and say the most

frightening things out loud

to someone who can hear it

when the night has gone quiet?

“Can you love me in this?

If I am not the one

holding it all together,

can you still love me like this?

Will you stand in the sun

of your sloping meadow,

and still hold my hand,

still walk beside me

until I have found my

way through the ancient

glade of this grief?”

The stream flows

and I will follow it.

Looking for

the tether that prays,

“Go, but come back.”