How to Grieve

Grief sounds so dramatic, like the death drop

of the organ, the dun dun dun of the dark

night of the soul. It’s not. It’s more like 

sitting on your childhood bed, adult weight

sagging against the spring foam mattress, 

your heart gagged and silent. Your heart

a rusted hinge needing more than elbow grease. 

Your heart a half-finished meal you’ll try 

to throw up later. Your heart a handkerchief 

of a woman still standing at the gravesite.

Metaphorical, of course. Nobody died.

Maybe if they did, this would be easier.

You’d get flowers—tiger lilies, orchids

with swigs of lavender. Tuna casserole.

Chicken spaghetti. Someone would sit

Shiva, even though you’re not Jewish.

Doesn’t matter. Your heart would understand.

We have the rituals in place, we know 

the order of events, death unfurls 

by the manual, step by shuttering step. 

What are the rules for lost love? 

I’m sorry he never held you

in your sleep. I wish he had 

remembered. Who could have predicted

that the blue of his eyes would turn into

a river that would drown you? Your

heart sits on the bed and tries to remember

what it felt like to float. Body cupped

against the arms of the water, hair

splayed like lily pads. Face warmed

by the sun and the love of someone

worthy. It takes as long as it takes. 

Someday soon you will think

of blue and only see sky.

But first, curl atop that old mattress. 

Buy the tiger lilies. 

Sit Shiva for yourself.

Grieve like a poet. 

My heart, my heart, my heart:

Let the mourners come. 

*The line “Let the mourners come” is from the poem “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden