Threadbare

I didn't expect this grief

to become threadbare

I didn't expect it to move in,

become something I owned,

claimed, defined myself by

I didn't expect it

to be a word easily spoken,

thin from overuse

I didn't expect it to soften

around my shoulders

the way a well worn pair

of shoes holds the shape of my foot.

But today my grief rises

three weeks after the night

I can't quite remember.

After the night

I remember vividly.

After the night

I remember the way

I look at stars

by staring to one side.

Grief rises,

mocking my attempts

to do the work before me

welling up

forming deltas of salt on my cheeks

rivulets

that collect in the hollow of my collar bones.

Here is my grief

my threadbare sadness

my frustration,

my scattered mind.

Here,

hold it up to the sky

and through it

count the stars.