Grief, she called it.
Grief, I suppose, it is:
a name for this
cruel, palpable loss.
Grief, she called it.
So I surrender;
I keel over to this grief.


Pool in my ears

There’s light on the ceiling

from the streetlamps outside

unblinking, I stare up at the glow

My eyes burning now

Faint streaks running down

each side of my temples

A cold pool of tears in my ears.


Slanted concrete
Teetering down the ssidelwalk
Left right Left rightRiight right left
Walk in a straight line, Miss.
I can’t, I’m sorry. the conrete is slanted
I can’thelp but teereter down the sildewalk.


I miss the depression in the centre of your chest

The concave between your ribs

Where at night I nestled my cheek in that vulnerable hollow,

Closed my eyes and held my breath

To heighten the sound of your heartbeat.

Today, I cannot hear it anymore, but sometimes when it is dark

I swear I can feel the pulsing of your heartbeat, it throbs against my cheek

Nestled in the vulnerable hollow–

I long for the sound to return.