Narrative on a Wound

The wound, the wound. You know that bearded man, the one who died?  The one who died angry, who wrapped himself around me and I led him out?  Well it’s been a year now and I’ve been angry (again).  He never said good bye.

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(no) superhero

Grief and joy are opposites.  Except that grieve is the preferable word because it is not static.  And if you let it live all of its lives, joy is a word that whispers constantly. And softly.

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Onwards

And then the cyclists
raise me upward.
Consume my eye.
They are waterproof
neck to ankle.
Onwards they pedal.
Onwards their eyes
say to me.

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Altar

I didn’t intend to build an altar. I don’t worship.  But I knew what had to stand in place of that guitar.  And I know honouring now, like I did not before.  Like a parent, I guide and narrate what is left of me – what grows – now that there is no body with which to commune.  

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It turns out

The sweater is just a sweater. The coffee shop is a place I have been many times, with many people. And today it is three years but I will not weep for that.

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