What is Left
At the height of loss,
When words disappear
And poetry leaves,
All that is left is faith.
When words disappear
And poetry leaves,
All that is left is faith.
Breathe, Grief
My mother She kept everything: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows, Old handbags, cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace And here I was vacating, creating space One by one, garbage bags piled up "You need space to breathe," I told her She nodded, wordless, unmoving Her limbs weakened by the stroke she suffered just a week ago Her eyes watered in quiet protest Nine years later, And four years since she passed I understand now This longing to keep things To hold objects, to grasp As it reaffirms one's life, that one became real that one truly lived Now I want to take it all back, the things I discarded to make space for her to supposedly breathe: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows, Old handbags, cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace I want to cram the space with everything she kept Leave no space for air So, I can...
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