To be in grief is to be dislodged from the mouth of time
To be in grief is to learn how to breath in the smog
Thin gray altocumulus hover lightly over our Christmas ham
The air is thick and soon the meat will go cold
To be in grief is to sit, a stone pillar
While grandpa recites prayer through sobs
I hate the man
I loved the woman
To be in grief is to drink from bottles instead of glasses
This is what you are allotted in your grief
I am exempt from judgment when my words become fragments
You will avert your eyes from the droplet on my chin,
whether it is white wine or tears will remain unknown to you
To be in grief is to pull your jacket sleeve over your hand and wipe the snow from the tombstone
and sit with an uncomfortably damp sleeve the whole car ride home
To be in grief is to unravel the string lights from the pine on the 26th
The second cousins have made it to their connecting flights
No need to upkeep for any blood-ties who’s occupations are unknown to us
The glue, dries, holds, and then withers away
Grief is the dissipation of the facade
To be in grief is to be honest
Grief is the truth
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