nine months
nine months
enough time
for a death to be born. to build itself
from smoke and ash. to bend light
in clear air. yes, the aches,
the strange marks, are with me now.
the heaviness. the fear and sadness.
the feet water-bloated,
too stiff for shoes.
A revision, obviously, of this one.
3 Comments
Hi Erin, I discovered your blog months ago and have been lurking ever since. Your poems written to give voice to your grief have deeply moved me. Grief is solitary and yet you are not alone. Thank you
Liked your site, check out mine.
Lovely and painful.
How strange and awful and awe-full, to have death and birth tied together in your life like that.