Grief lays into my numbed limbs
like an angry old woman lashing
out with her trusty old umbrella

flaying me one whack at a time.

Grief washes over me in undulating waves,
overcomes me with its distinctive undertow,
sucking me down under its great wet weight,

crashes me down helpless on the beachfront.

Salt rushes into my eyes — into my mouth.
Sand abrades the tenderest parts of being.
Floodtides reopen dark welts and wounds.

No escape from these persistent abrasions.

I hear the sound of each wave’s approach.
I feel the sting of salt thrown off by the sea.
I see relentless mists on wide-open oceans.

Fogs of grief engulf me when I try to stand —

but I falter and fall
again — and yet again,
for this is still grief

after all —
unrepentant grief
in us all.

. . . . .

spb