I grieve the “funeral in my brain.”
I grieve for decency, for kindness.
I grieve for eyes that see beyond the borders of the flesh.
I grieve the eternal syncopation of loss and revival.
I grieve the hanging chads, three millimeters long.
Grief is a thief, it is said. I see it chasing reason down the lane.
The tick of the eternal clock, the creeping poison of lies.
I grieve for a time when phones and memes were not our lives. When we entertained ourselves with piles of autumn leaves and an old tennis ball.
I grieve for the tender touch of loved ones and the spinning disco.
I grieve too often. I grieve too loud. I grieve for dear friends and heroes as they die.
I grieve for their wit, their songs, their understanding.
Our dreams, my dreams. The painful longing.
I count the wishes, the moments that will not be.
I grieve for striped bell bottoms and the faith I had. The long, swinging days of summer and the comfort of the front porch.
I grieve for bonfires and sardines in the dunes,
The sea with her entangled creatures and plastic reefs, soft colored glass on her shores.
I grieve for you too. For the knees that do not work, for the dimples on the back of a baby’s hand. For the mermaid’s song, for the rhythm of the beat,
The golden glint in your eye.
I grieve for hope, for a country with no wars, no lines drawn in the sand.
For justice and forgiving,
A few sweet words after a long, hard day.
I grieve so I don’t fall apart.
Grief is active. It is alive in the shadows. Helpless, it carves you out.
A smashed pumpkin. The end of caring.
It is the swiping left complexion, the passionless stare,
But I see the earth is still breathing. I fear it will not last.
Russet leaves adorn the lawn.
The salt marsh sparrow’s warning. Rising tides and polar bears they cry.
A great divide to share.
Fear drives the engine now.
I grieve my lost babies, all the babies, for a little light in the darkness.
Through the dust of captured cities, the leaden march of outrage,
A peace we could have had.
I long for journeys untaken and the taste of worlds unknown,
The books unread. The pyre that we made.
I fear the messenger his shining scythe displayed.
This grumbling, sprawling discontent I feel. I cannot make it still.
I grieve the open door.
The quick currency of a giggle. How cool we once were.
Two kisses on the cheek, in the Jeu de Paume.
Slow jazz, a Sunday morning. I cannot bring it back.
And what about this body, battleground of rights unwon.
Despised and so desired. It is no use to me.
I grieve it like a house without walls.
I grieve the promises I made, undelivered.
Each word of them.
I grieve the years I worked too hard.
Children’s faces on the pillow as I miss another morning, another evening.
Their smell, their shapes into my body.
The way they piled on top of us, and we rolled and cuddled and rolled again.
I grieve every minute of anger, of siding with the trolls.
I grieve again, so I won’t fall apart.
Archie, Allegra and Astra.
I grieve because I won’t be here to see you grow.
Come and loaf with me in the grass.
I grieve the girl standing in Bryant Park, in Dupont Circle chanting against the war. I am sorry. I am sorry we did not get it right. I am sorry we failed you.
I leave you this ethical desert, a fractured world. Forgive me.
I drift. All I have is love.
Gillian Gordon is an adjunct professor of film at Brooklyn College. She lives in Springs.