Come, sit. With me, you are
welcome though your tears
make you feel pushed aside
by the world. What have they
told you? To dry your eyes?
Chin up? Power through? No,
pain is a prophet. Trust it
like your own mother’s
voice, like your own heart.
Hold out your sorrow to me.
Let us pause here, reverent,
as we would watch the stars.
Feel now the weight
of your grief in your soft
hands, see how the light
hits it, wait as it builds
and then recedes again.
We are keeping holy vigil
over the quiet deaths
we face each day.
Shame has no place
here. Let’s follow the tide
of our pain. Who knows
where we might wash up?
Bruised and battered, gulping
in precious new breaths so sharp
and bright, they are almost laughter.