Grief.
Grief belongs to the families of girls carted off in trucks by hooting, khat-crazed lunatics.
Grief belongs to the parents of the child at the end of the rope.
Grief belongs to the desolate relict of the 60 year marriage.
Grief is that which bends every good soul softly to the afflicted,
In tears.
I can not claim grief. Not that.
We shared a meal, just last night. We are – friends.
But where is my word? What is its name?
To know that in all my nights to come
I will never feel your breath on the back of my neck,
Never reach out in my sleep to touch you,
Never wake to your puppy snore
And turn to stroke the slow curve of your hip,
Under the faint fabric of a beloved cotton nightshirt
Washed to silk.
Never drink your beauty in the cellphone’s glow,
And never again, as long as I will live, draw you to me in love?
This is not grief.
It just
Feels like it.
Play With Strangers 