Monday, February 1, 2010

Meeting my Own Grief

Meeting my grief, even if only halfway, sucks
the breath right out of my lungs.

Suddenly my bra is too tight.

My counselor said, look at that young girl’s stories
with compassion (I unhook the bra).

How to step into the gravity field of my own longing. *

I dream the river is rising. The big car rounds
the bend, makes a wide turn to avoid
splashing water at the crest of the hill.

I round up the kids, get us to higher ground,
look for a shortcut over that highway.
But a man says, only turnpikes, clover leafs,
You can’t get there on foot.

Swallow my grief? Or swim right through it?
I step into the river.

poem by me
*quote from David Whyte