on grief and the end

start with something basic
water, the tub

soak there and listen to your
housemate play the ukulele

your housemate, you didn't choose
a housemate.

you chose a lover

your lover did not choose you

start with something simple
a hug, a how are you

when they ask and want to know
you share

time passes slowly, i know
your chest aches
i know

you listen while everyone else asks
the questions
you can't answer

why, and how come, and how could
he do that

you sleep
watch the sun set out of your
west facing window

your home together didn't face the west

i know
your chest, it aches i know
ache is not a metaphor
it's the real thing, i know

and while you yearn for the presence
of a person who left you

you remember
you will never leave yourself

start with something basic
a plant, a meal

learn what it means to make something again
to grow
something again
all for yourself

it aches, i know
you cannot hold a baby close enough to
relieve the pain

start with something simple
a tear
a poem
a nap

you didn't choose a housemate
you chose a lover
he didn't choose you

you choose yourself

day eighteen

 day nineteen

day twenty

day twenty one

for years i've had this weird mental image of a marshmallow man, but thin. imagine the sensation of being stick thin and being full of marshmallows. 

it's fall. the city is alive and the office smells like chemicals. i feel the pulling in. 

day sixteen 

day seventeen

stages of grief
walk through the world suspended between time zones
curse, strong emphasis on motherfucker
compulsively eat
compulsively shop
find friends, all the friends, sing in circles of busyness
make appointments for massages and chiropractors
drink old fashioneds with cherries
don't fall down
study light
drink water
crave green food again
walk a little further this time

day ten

day eleven

day twelve

day thirteen

day fourteen

day fifteen

spend all your love

you can't take it with you

use your body hard

you can't take it with you

this is a fresh hard rip

rugged, dry, unclean

this is a dark blood anger

running, deep, wet

i feel my hands every day

i react react

i hold myself at night

cradle the sacred

talk to the fear

day nine

we must let our sadness visit
we must welcome it

my housemate played the ukulele
i listened from my candlelit lavender water
i thought about grace and new beginnings
and tilling the soil

the weight of the three week old baby in my arms

the tears that ran down my cheek, listening to 

the extra long hug from a colleague

the determination to do good

the silence

the owl outside my window

the harmonies i will listen to this weekend

the fuck you fuck you fuck you text i sent to protect myself

day seven

acceptance is a small, quiet room

things i know to be true- 

there are two kinds of people in the world

companionship is comforting in both experience and observation

always give me more basil

fewer words, more breath

this whole day, my heart sank

day six

tell me of your solitude, of your blood drawn.
drink salts and lie down on sheets
smelling just slightly of cologne,
stumble through your days with words practiced
with ceremonies of stubbornness
with sacred hollow grief

day five

were it only so simple, this craving for home

day four

I am the person who walks to the edge of the platform, stops, takes a picture, takes another one. The ginkgos are barely turning, I wish them to make haste. I have been asking myself to be in each moment, in my body, and in my present, for years.

Today I am. I cannot predict the next moment, I am firmly in the present. The child walks in proudly with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shoes on. Someone does something brilliant. We talk about musical Spanx. We make laughter.

day three

top photo: mine
bottom photo: lindsey glass-deshmukh

I find myself obsessed with silence, and with morning. One NyQuil dose now, one glass of wine, one cigarette, one morning, my eyes are open without my consent and my feet move willingly. I disassemble, regroup, consent to the renaissance and the remaking and the retooling and the restoration and the reawakening.

day two

top photo: mine

bottom photo: lindsey glass-deshmukh

dawn chooses its words carefully
dawn cradles and whispers

she arrives when we need her to stroke our hair and
reassures us that more is coming

day 1
top photo: mine
bottom photo: lindsey glass-deshmukh

centered

i hate the guilt of the unfinished. i compulsively read new books, any books i can get my hands on, any books i walk by and pick off the shelf 

but this leaves things unfinished. i cringe when i think of how many books i have in limbo. i cringe more when listening to a podcast by a Very Smart Man who has at least 50 books in limbo at once, 

must we all be masters of none? must we jump around social media and project to project and become jittery apprentices to hundreds of things, minds separated by short tunnels and very brief pit stops? 

my uncle says that every woman should know how to make a biscuit. i challenge him, asking him if this is a man’s task as well, because sometimes i just want a biscuit (bagel) brought to me in bed. i balk at the sexist language while agreeing with the sentiment. yes, i am proud of the way i cut the butter into the flour/salt/baking soda/baking powder and know exactly the right texture. yes, my heart soars at the flakiness and i’m proud to know that my great grandmother would be proud. 

i am surrounded by lovely things, things made with the skilled hands of my friends, my teachers. they learn to draw, they learn to stitch, they combine oils and essential oils and make salves that soothe my own hands, worn tired and dry from clay during the winter months. when i sit down to make, i am hastened into the solar system of the makers. i pound a cube into a globe, i smooth out pits, i slam it down into the center of the wheel, take my place at the stool, dip my hands into warm water, lean into the process. it is not something i am prepared for, each time. my shoulders ache, my eyes see a little wobble, i pull the clay up and push it down, up and down, over and over until i think, a bit, it’s centered. 

centered is such a complex word to me now. i have watched the clay through processes, i have felt it in my hands. there is such a mystery in the miracle of fully centering a large ball of clay. i tell you, it feels like you bit into the center of the universe, unmasked the mysteries of love. for your hands to move not one bit when holding the clay, it’s simply a miracle. 

and then you get to making. you steady your hands and pull a hole. you pull and pull and watch and watch, and then you pull the weight of the clay into something that resembles an every day item. 

i am a maker, i think, each time. i walk back to the brick of clay and cut myself a new piece. i marvel at the coldness of the clay, i set about to making another globe, i slam it down with a satisfactory womp, i press myself into an immovable structure, i hold and push and hold and push that clay until it maybe, just maybe, gives me a taste of the divine.