Aleah Dye
Grounded
No one understands loss until sunken by it,
once able to grasp the concept of standing, now
tied to the bed, to the floor, to the arms supporting the
head heavy with discomfort, disillusion, disgust because death
is not a phone call before coming over, it is a collapsing kick to the front door,
never bothering with niceties, the “I’m sorry for your loss” that the others gift, playing on repeat like the
Gaye record that never stays on the shelf for long, and death stares until breathing
is difficult for the living, the hearts left to swell with the acid of gone, the pulses pumping at
speeds for Guinness and then stopping to wonder if the
abject effort is worth it when
last night, the light was still on, and now the world is a raven’s wing,
inside darkness, swallowing darkness, pushing pain and talons down for
vatic dessert because we all know that the circle of life is a square after all, sharp-toothed
eon corners suffocating what little flight we have left
once able to grasp the concept of standing, now
tied to the bed, to the floor, to the arms supporting the
head heavy with discomfort, disillusion, disgust because death
is not a phone call before coming over, it is a collapsing kick to the front door,
never bothering with niceties, the “I’m sorry for your loss” that the others gift, playing on repeat like the
Gaye record that never stays on the shelf for long, and death stares until breathing
is difficult for the living, the hearts left to swell with the acid of gone, the pulses pumping at
speeds for Guinness and then stopping to wonder if the
abject effort is worth it when
last night, the light was still on, and now the world is a raven’s wing,
inside darkness, swallowing darkness, pushing pain and talons down for
vatic dessert because we all know that the circle of life is a square after all, sharp-toothed
eon corners suffocating what little flight we have left
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