For BG, among others
One has softened, grown warm and round.
When we see each other, that grief greets me
With a hug, mutual embrace, neither clinging.
We place ourselves in the other’s arm to understand weight.
We are more or and less heavy at any given moment,
Me and my grief, like a pebble in a pocket who does not know
Whether it has been ferried to sea level or space.
Gravity must be relearned in each moment.
This grief whispers golden light and thick honey
And I swallow, what is sometimes sweetness and sometimes
A painful wad that stretches my throat, catches in the dent
Above my collarbone. We are almost friends. The other is undulled
A trickster with razor blades who hungers for the raw
And must be fed dearly, like a newborn learning to latch
Cannot be fully unloved for the pain, for her fulfilled id.
This grief hunts my gaze and trespasses
At the edge of my vision, in a crowd, and
For that half moment I forget
The soul that I think is that shape is gone.
Still gone. Sometimes she hovers invisible
To plant a scent, to solder this live wire
Direct electric bypass to the void I hold
Heart and breath arrested. In her presence I am always unhealed.
She always catches me by surprise.
Shana Ross bought her first computer working the graveyard shift in a windchime factory, and she’s kept it among her possessions ever since. Her writing career has been dormant for many years for reasons both practical and best discussed in therapy, but she has been making a respectable living as a consultant, executive coach, and global leadership expert. In 2018 she dyed her hair purple and is starting to turn that all around. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from: Anapest Journal, Anatolios Magazine, Apricity Press, Ghost City Review, Indolent Press, Mad Scientist Journal, SHANTIH, Street Light Press, The Sunlight Press, Voice of Eve, and Writers Resist.