The community of grief
Does not define itself.
Every time it draws a boundary,
A body falls on the line,
Effacing it, extending it,
Rendering it less exclusive.
In homogenous empty time,
Where the good is as banal
As evil; homo reparans –
So certain in its impulse to repair,
Wonders how to deal with
Its inheritance of loss. Where
do I place these gifts of anguish
delivered to my doorstep
more often than I can pick up?
It was not I who ordered them,
But they keep coming. These packages
Of death, despair, and helplessness. And
I pile them in all corners of my house. For
There are no return addresses,
Eviscerated every time I close the door.
When they first started accumulating,
They made me think. I have come
To expect them now,
every time I open the door,
Even the luxury of surprise is denied.
I collect them, maintaining a “strict economy of hope”,
The legacy of this grief is as much mine
As is the bequest of thoughtless accruing.
I send money, and post on Twitter. I even dare
To bring up the news in ritual social engagements.
this seems enough to think myself good.
Grief doesn’t end. But I have things to do.
So I’ll make space in the garage, and maybe
some more in my conversations. After all,
The world is always burning. For my part,
I’ll share some water - after my bath,
and filling up the underground tank, and
after washing and cleaning, and after tending
to my summer garden, whatever water remains
you can take it, to put out the fires.
I go to bed in peace knowing I have done my bit.
