they say grief is the price
of love, as if there’s a penalty
for loving, as if it breaks
rules or laws or expectations
.
it’s a laugh, really, what they say
about grief, what they think they know
about love; it’s their rules
that have a cost—the rules written
on their face as they purse
their lips, as their gaze traces
the length of my arm, as it lingers
where my hand entwines itself with hers
.
in this morning’s pale light, the white
cat from across the street flung
herself into our overgrown shrub, emerged
with a bird clamped in her jaws, limp
.
so it goes, and spring turns
to summer, leaves scatter, the earth becomes
cold and colorless; we paint our hearts red,
stick them in soil, and hope
.
a tow truck arrives with our car, black hood
crumpled, a deer’s coarse hairs clinging
to the bumper; are we so different from the driver who
glanced away and stole my sister’s future?
the distracted man who shattered
our lives?
.
all things end—by inattention or neglect,
on cancer wards and battlefields,
in dark allies and coffee shops, and in the back
of an ambulance while a siren
pleads; so it goes, so it goes, and hate
slashes at innocence, fate
cheats and steals, and sorrow for the world
crushes our spirit
like eggshells; we crumple
with the pain of it, heart
wrung out and limp, and we vow
never again—but even then
we tip back our head, even then we open
ourselves for second helpings
and third, our soul ravenous
we’re relentless, aren’t we?
and why not? we love
and we love, because
we cannot help ourselves, because
we cannot bear the alternative, because
we were made for light
.
what light is there
in this world
that does not come
from love?
.
so we keep loving the ones
we love, expectations be damned,
and we mourn the dead and
dance in the light
and do our utmost to love this
broken, dying world
.
all things end
.
all things
but love
.
so it goes
